An Eagle's Cry
by Toringtino
Summary: "I don't want anything from you, other than your life." In the shadowed world of the Brotherhood, one Assassin struggles to find peace not only for his city, but for his heart as well. GrimmIchi. Yaoi. AU - Inspired by Ubisoft's 'Assassin's Creed'.
1. Part One

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach nor its characters. Similarly, I do not own Ubisoft's 'Assassin's Creed'. God how I wish both statements were false, though...**

**For those who have never played/heard of 'Assassin's Creed', yah might wanna look up 'Ezio Auditore' on Google images in order ta get a clear picture of his Assassin's outfit. It was appallingly difficult to describe - apologies.**

**Hi-Ho, Silver~! ^^**

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><p><strong>.:An Eagle's Cry:.<strong>

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><p><em>Nulla e reale; tutto e lecito.<em>

_'Nothing is true; everything is permitted.'_

**_Assassin's Creed_**

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><p><strong>Florence, the Year of Our Lord 1476<strong>

It was mid-spring, the smell of jasmine heavy in the air and the weather temperate, if not bordering on the more stifling side of hot. The early afternoon sun was bearing down on the major city located in northern Italy, her scorching rays caressing the different districts and highlighting several prominent landmarks that made Florence one of the wealthiest cities in the world; the Mercato Vecchio, Santa Maria Novella, Palazzo Medici, Santa Trinita, Palazzo Pitti.

Florence was surely beautiful during this time of the Renaissance, her inhabitants proud to be part of her rich and flourishing culture as they went about their daily business, spirits high as some exchanged pleasantries with merchants in the market, whilst others idled in the squares to listen to the minstrels strumming melodious harmonies on their lutes; there was even a young Italian male or two who'd finally worked up the courage to attempt courtship with the fairer sex they were sure was their one and only.

All in all, this particular day in early April was yet another one much the same as the last; quiet, peaceful, and oh so beautiful. One citizen however, could not appreciate the day as the other residents were. He was pacing back and forth in an agitated manner, sharp eyes the colour of mustard constantly surveying the immediate surroundings from his discreet position within a small alleyway between a local blacksmiths and a middle class apartment building.

Dark shadows encompassed the man's slim figure, not that anyone would be able to accurately guess the build from beneath layers of protective armour situated around his legs, arms, chest and shoulders, such protection portraying him a Borgia guard of the Elite calibre could anyone see him. His helmet was laying to his right, having been abandoned mere moments after arrival due to the intense heat. From his secretive position it was hard to tell unless you got up close and personal, but if he were to take but one step into the revealing rays of the sun, she would divulge shoulder length strands the colour of amaranth pink, slim and narrow features depicting roughly twenty-five years of life, and eyes so calculative most felt physically violated when subject to their penetrative gaze.

The man huffed, running delicate fingers through his hair. "_Sangue di Giuda_," he muttered, his gaze once more falling into the streets at the mouth of the alley. Patience was definitely not one of his stronger suits, and hence now that his confidant was more than ten minutes late, he was becoming vastly more irritated with every passing second. "Where the fuck is that _stronzo_?" he demanded of no one but himself, feeling infinitesimally better at venting out his frustrations; even if it was to thin air. "When I get a hold of that _bastardo_, I'm going to make him my next research specimen… Nobody keeps Szayel Aporro Granz waiting!"

So lost in his own obsessively gleeful and morbid thoughts of dissection and disembodiment, Szayel failed to realise that he wasn't quite as alone as he thought. A young man, no older than a tender twenty-one, watched from an equally disguised location atop of the slate tiled roof, a good four stories above the blacksmith. Honey-ochre eyes were sharp and focused, determined, just as they always were; years upon laborious years of training and honing a rather specific set of skills saw to that. Gazing down at the vexing, restless individual, a small, dark smirk lilted the youth's lips, before he took his first step out onto a wooden beam set out over the yawning abyss before him. He didn't hesitate or flinch, not even upon seeing the harsh, unforgiving cobblestone path that lay in wait down below.

Szayel indeed remained totally unawares of the extra presence, right up until the moment he heard the shrill cry of what sounded eerily similar to a bird of prey… An eagle, perhaps?

Quirking a brow, he turned his attention skyward. "_Ma che cazzo?_" he wondered aloud. A sudden creaking sound had him snapping his focus to the blind spot behind him, his body whirling round just in time to witness the hooded figure gracefully step off of the beam above his head.

Mustard eyes widening in a mixture of awe and disbelief, Szayel found himself unable to pry his gaze from the figure as he fell, plummeting toward the ground silently, effortlessly, the black cape draped over the man's left shoulder the only thing making any noise as it lagged behind, fluttering against the wind. Where most ordinary men would suddenly find themselves with a broken ankle and shattered tibia, the mysterious figure landed in a neat crouch, expertly absorbing any shockwaves of damage so that he could immediately straighten up and cleanly stalk forward, all with nary a hair out of place.

The pink haired male felt his heart leap into his throat and icy cold tendrils permeating his veins when he finally put two and two together; the flawless technique, the somewhat lethal execution of such an elaborate stunt that would render most individuals incapacitated, and, of course, that outfit – the ebony black jerkin that fell down past the normal length, creating elaborate looking tails at the front and back, the crimson lined cape currently hugging his left shoulder, that notorious hood with the tip fashioned to look like the hooked beak of a predatory bird. But perhaps most notable of all was that accursed symbol, that damned emblem that sat loud and proud across the figure's midsection, the silver metal seeming to glitter and shine forebodingly even given their shadowed surroundings.

That particular insignia could spell nothing but trouble for any soul unfortunate enough to lay eyes on it, was what gave rise to chilling gooseflesh over the entire length of Szayel's body in spite of the wonderfully pleasant climate; it was the badge of highly trained killer, perhaps the most feared and respected that had ever walked the surface of the Earth.

It was the mark of an Assassin.

"Sorry to interrupt your…ramblings," the figure spoke in a honeyed baritone, startling Szayel enough to make a reach for the sword resting at his hip. The Assassin merely chuckled at the cagey reaction. "Waiting for someone, are we?"

"That's hardly any business of yours, _birbante_," Szayel spat, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword making him feel a little more comfortable.

The Assassin shrugged nonchalantly. "That's true, I guess. Perhaps I should just take my leave, let you get back to…well, _whatever_ it was you were doing." Turning on his heel, the Assassin made to leave. Szayel watched with apprehensive eyes, his grip easing around his weapon with each step he took in the opposite direction; only to immediately re-tighten when the figure suddenly stopped, twirling round to face him once more. "Although," he started, one hand fisted on his hip and the other cupping his chin in mock contemplation. "What if I told you that I know where your little accomplice is?"

Szayel glared at the man. "You're lying."

The Assassin couldn't help but grin at the other's words. He'd made it a statement, but there was little conviction behind it, and his words trembled slightly, giving away his fear that he could be mistaken.

Taking a bold step forward, the Assassin tilted his head back just a tad, allowing the dark, fathomless shadow cast from his hood to expose his cocky smirk. "Am I now? Let's see… He was a tall, skinny fellow. Long blonde hair, awfully sarcastic and somewhat effeminate looking…" The Assassin didn't miss the small clench of the man's jaw at that. His smirk broadened. "Damn, what was his name? I know he told me…"

"Why do you keep talking in past tense, like he's no longer with us?" Szayel demanded, willing himself to swallow his cowardice so that he could advance on the figure. He just couldn't bring himself to do it, though.

"Oh, that?" The Assassin gave a dismissive wave. "Don't worry yourself. It was quick and clean, I promise. He didn't have the time to feel a thing."

Szayel's nostrils flared in anger. "What is that supposed to mean?"

The Assassin suddenly dropped all pretences, assured grin wiping clean from his face as his eyes hardened and his fingers curled into white knuckled fists. Szayel noted the change in demeanour, the violent air that seemed to settle down around them, and his heart suddenly fluctuated into an erratic rhythm.

"What it _means_ is, I know what you and your villainous kin were up to, what you had planned," the Assassin all but growled, the metal greaves over his leather boots jangling ominously as he advanced. "What it _means_, Szayel Aporro Granz, is that you should be more careful when plotting your devious little schemes. Maybe that way your own brother wouldn't have had the displeasure of tasting my blade through the back of his throat." Carefully schooling his features into callous indifference, the figure dealt the final blow. "Yylfordt Granz is dead, _abominato_ – and it's all. Your. Fault."

Szayel knew he should be feeling a whole myriad of emotions at that news; sorrow, fury, grief, fear. But he didn't. Not really. Yes his brother was dead, fallen to the hands of a filthy Assassin at that, but honestly all he felt was supreme annoyance. He'd gone to his older brother knowing that he could be trusted with what he'd planned, but he should have known better, picked someone a little more…dependable. What a fool, getting himself on the receiving end of an Assassin's blade – had he not told him to be wary of such a thing? Ordered him to stick to the shadows, to never leave his back open for attack? His plan would surely suffer an indeterminable setback now, but, as long as he got himself out of the rather sticky situation he currently found himself in, it could still be salvaged, the faults recovered. All was not lost.

Yet…

Putting years of practise into play, the pink haired guard let a look of absolute devastation wash over him, going as far as to slump his shoulders and bury his face in his hands as he let forged 'sobs' rack his body. He wasn't like his dim-witted kin; he knew there was no way he could take on the man in front of him and hope to come out with his life still in tact. The Assassin was optimally versatile, with lightweight armour adorning his body, including vambraces, a chest guard, and metal pauldrons, giving him a good defence, protecting him from any blow aimed his way should he have the foresight to block appropriately.

Then there was the arsenal, giving him an impressive offensive advantage. From what Szayel could see, the Assassin had a sword of his own hanging by his left hip, accompanied by a stiletto dagger not far beneath it. He had throwing knives, at least ten, tucked into pouches on either side of the central insignia, and, although he couldn't see it, Szayel knew the figure had one – perhaps more, as no one knew for sure – hidden blade on his person. It was undoubtedly the Assassins' greatest weapon, their constant and faithful companion throughout the years, and hence the absolute bane of their enemies existence.

And all of that wasn't even taking into account the fact that his opponent would be agile, able to dodge and parry and attack with the kind of practised ease that his own meagre military training couldn't ever hope to keep on par with. So yes, challenging this particular male in a one-on-one dual was not only idiotic and undeniably insane – it was just downright suicidal. And so he would resort to his ace in the hole, the one trait he'd been gifted with since birth…

…_trickery_.

"What's the matter Granz?" the Assassin inquired as he closed in, now just a hairsbreadth away. "Aren't you going to beg for your life?"

Dropping to his knees, Szayel hung his head, just enough to feign deep sorrow and regret, but not enough that he couldn't see the malicious sneer tilting the Assassin's lips.

"Your brother begged for his," the youth continued, circling around the elder like a ravenous wolf sizing up the best, most delectable way in which to exact its kill. "Told me everything I wanted to know without my needing to even ask. Tell me, how does it feel to be ratted out by your own blood, hn? To know that he was so pathetically spineless that he willingly gave me your whereabouts just so he could save his own skin? Of course, I may have told a little white lie when I said I'd let him live in return for his cooperation…but hey, it was his own damn fault for trusting the word of his enemy."

The Assassin watched with a certain degree of accomplishment as the older male's slim shoulders started to shake with what he assumed was anguish, a slender hand rising to cover the man's mouth as his bereavement escaped him. But oh how wrong he was. Szayel was trying his best to stay the course, to keep the younger male thinking that he was lost to grief – but really, it was all so trite he couldn't hold himself together much longer. Did the fool honestly believe that he could ever lament the loss of such an imbecile the likes of which his brother turned out to be? How absurdly preposterous.

Unable to help himself, Szayel felt the grasp on his pretence slipping away, giving birth to stifled chuckles, ones that spread like a virus to the rest of his system and exploded into loud, vigorous laughter before long. The Assassin could only watch, his face pinching in disgust at the man's lack of disregard toward his own flesh and blood. How wretchedly miserable.

"My brother was a simpleton," Szayel stated indifferently, mustard orbs holding no emotion other than cold, hard fact. "With that loud mouth, cowardly disposition and subpar intelligence, he would have faired better with life in a sordid _bordello_ than he ever did working under me. He was nothing if not a constant embarrassment to our family name; so, if you _really_ think about it, your slaying him is a blessing in disguise." A sly, twisted smirk slithered its way onto thin lips, making him appear more manic than the Assassin had deemed possible. "In reality, I should be thanking you, _Assassino_."

"You're the _lurido codardo_," the Assassin spat, his lip curled back in distaste. "How can you sit there and speak ill of a dead man? I don't want your gratitude, you sick son-of-a-bitch – I don't want _anything_ from you, other than your life."

"Well, unfortunately for you, I'm going to have to deny that request."

The youth scoffed. "Oh? And how do you plan to stop me, _traditore_?"

Szayel grinned, his eyes glinting. "As an Assassin, you should very well know that any worthy foe always carries a trick or two…up his sleeve!"

Before the Assassin could react, Szayel reached into the depths of his right sleeve, procuring a small vial which, when thrown to the ground mere centimetres from his feet, exploded into a thick cloud of purplish-black smoke. The heavy fog obscured his vision, and the smell – obviously a potent concoction of whatever illegal substances the slippery bastard had gotten his grubby mitts on – was enough to make him hack and wheeze, giving the pink haired guard time enough to scramble to his feet and make a clean break for it.

"_Figlio d'un cane!_" the Assassin cursed, wiping furiously at chemically induced weeping eyes.

Szayel burst out of the alley in a panicked flourish, calling forth his acting ability to appeal to the masses as his eyes and actions screamed of terror. "Help!_ Aiutami, Dio!_" he cried, successfully catching the attention of all those around him. Smirking inwardly to himself, he called out the one word he knew for certain would rally the Florence civilians around him; "_Assassino!_"

As expected, alarm quickly spread through the faces and hearts of the city's residents, the once busy street erupting into a state of distress and panic as people fled in all directions, unsure of which way they should turn to escape the infamous crusader. This time Szayel let his smirk filter out into view. _All of this commotion should provide ample coverage for a swift getaway, _he mused haughtily, easily losing himself to the crowd as he hurried away from the alley and certain death.

The Assassin, as soon as he was able to see straight again, made for the mouth of the passage, only to groan in exasperation when he realised his target had caused a flurry in which to flee. Setting his jaw, the young male hurried back from where he came, grim determination etched deep into his brow as he scaled the roughcast wall of the apartment building, his movements catlike in their finesse as he fluently picked his hand and footholds, easily reaching the roof in seconds. From there he had the perfect 'eagle's-vision', and, with hair so obnoxiously coloured, it didn't take long at all for the trained killer to pick out his target from the stampeding herd.

Judging the distance from the roof on which he stood to the redbrick palazzo situated across the width of the bustling street, the Assassin quickly deemed it achievable, giving himself a nod of approval. Taking a few steps back in order to get a half decent running start, the Assassin took an almighty leap from one side of the street to the other, clearing the gaping void stories beneath his feet to land in a tucked up roll on the roof of the palazzo. Adrenaline now pumping thick through his veins, the figure darted across the rooftops, keeping a keen eye on the blinding head of pink trying to make his escape in the throng of terrified citizens. That alone had the Assassin curling his fingers. Didn't they know, couldn't they tell, that the Assassin's Guild was on their side? That they fought from within the shadows to further their cause, to make their lives rich and ensure that they always had the taste of freedom on their tongues?

Growling, he shoved the thoughts from his mind. Now was not the time to be pondering over such trivial matters.

The Assassin propelled himself forward, athletic legs and a young, healthy set of lungs ensuring that he would not know fatigue or system failure for a long time yet. Smiling with pure exhilaration as he surged over the endless sea of tiles, the figure put his all into every jump and leap, hurling himself over obstacles and numerous other voids glaring up at him from below. He was fast gaining on his target, having the obvious advantage of a clear passageway no matter which direction he turned, whereas the pink haired buffoon was distracted in his own chaos, audibly cursing out each and every person who got caught in his path and hindered his escape.

Sensing the perfect opportunity when the guard blindsided a man at least twice his bulk, sending him sprawling to the cobblestone floor, the Assassin made a quick assessment of the surroundings, searching for the quickest route down to the helpless mark, before throwing himself from the roof with nothing but fearlessness in his heart. The wind was whistling in his ears as it rushed past his head at dizzying speeds, tears wetting his eyes from the force, but still he didn't miss his objective, grabbing a firm hold of the iron bar jutting out a metre down from where he leapt. Moving with the momentum, the Assassin swung forward, letting go of the bar to land neatly on a veranda another metre or so down. From there it was a simple matter of stepping out into the air, much like he'd done earlier, his feet landing square in front of the spluttering target.

"Well, well, well," the Assassin drawled, bending down to seize the older male by the scruff before he got any more funny ideas. Hauling him to his feet, the figure did his best to ignore the frightened gasps and whispered murmurings of the small crowd beginning to mill around them. "We met again, Granz. Are you going to die a dignified death this time, or tire yourself out some more with fruitless chasing?"

Mustard eyes were wide with dread, and this time there was no falsity behind the emotion. "_Why?_" he beseeched, his hands trembling. "Why do you Assassins care about this? It had nothing to do with you! It was supposed to be a simply mutiny, a way for me and my kin to gain some power and influence instead of simpering under the boot of some brainless twit! So why are you here? I don't understand!"

Chuckling dryly, the younger male decided to indulge the man. After all, it would be his dying wish.

"'Why', you ask? It's quite simple really…" Leaning in close, far enough for Szayel to catch sight of burning ochre and a scowling brow ingrained with a palpable fury, the Assassin growled, "Because you threatened the one closest to my heart, and in doing so sealed your own fate. This isn't an official contract, _coniglio_…consider this a personal vendetta."

Szayel frowned, irked beyond all comprehension at his own incapability to piece together the information quicker than his mind was evidently struggling to do. He was a fucking genius, damn it! But then, even the conclusion he came to was an effort to grasp. Surely the Assassin dog wasn't implying that which he was formulating as truth, was he?

Slender brows furrowing deeper, he responded, "Wait… Are you saying that–?"

"It doesn't matter," the Assassin quickly dismissed, knowing that he needed to finish up and disappear before they attracted more attention than they already had. "You have no use for idle gossip where you're headed, _signore_ Granz. I hope you've made peace with your God, because I'm about to send you to meet him."

All pride and dignity thrown to the wind without a care, Szayel quickly reduced himself to the one vice every human fell to when faced with certain demise, one that held no prejudice toward status, power, or wealth; barefaced pleading.

"No, wait! Please!" Szayel begged, certain he would have dropped to his knees by now had the younger man not had him in such a steadfast grip. "Reconsider! I can be a very useful and resourceful ally – I have influence, money… Just name your price! I'll pay anything; _do_ anything! Please!"

The Assassin felt like rolling his eyes, but with difficulty refrained. "I already told you; you have nothing I want. And there is nothing you can do." Clasping his left hand on the guard's shoulder, he gripped a pointed chin with his right, making sure to angle his wrist directly under a bobbing Adam's apple. Stepping in close, the Assassin tilted his head down so that his lips hovered close to the elder's ear. "_Requiescat in pace…traditore._"

With a subtle flick of the wrist, the Assassin made use of undeniably his most deadly weapon; the hidden blade. Concealed on the underside of his vambraces, the mechanised, retractable blade was small, but highly lethal. Like the poisonous adder, it lay curled up in wait, patiently biding its time until the opportune moment to unfurl and strike, killing its prey in one single, fatal blow. It was the epitome of stealth.

No one ever saw it coming.

For all his unfathomable intellect, Szayel could not find the words to describe what he was currently feeling – although in his defence, it wasn't everyday he found himself viciously stabbed through the throat, and so he'd never had the chance to make the appropriate notes on such an experience. He tried to speak, but it was useless. His vocal cords lay in tatters, the hidden blade severing them completely when it retraced slowly, so very slowly, back out.

Grasping at his throat, Szayel sputtered, all noise made gurgled as he began to drown on his own blood. A steady river of crimson coated his hand, streaming over his fingers and down the length of his neck to soak into the material of his shirt. Mustard eyes, glassing over and unable to focus on any one thing for long, landed squarely on the Assassin, his withering body noting the almost solemn look upon the Assassin's face as he sank to his knees, his body strength unable to hold his weight as his very life force poured liberally from the wound.

The Assassin helped the lightly convulsing body to the ground, guiding the man down to lay upon his back. Honey-ochre eyes watched reverently as the life visibly drained from the guard, eyes once so full of energy and schemes dulling as they lost that unmistakable spark that signified existence, limbs growing heavy and cumbersome as internal organs started to shut down, leaving the dying man feeling cold and so utterly helpless.

Szayel's last breath was shaky and frightened, the final rush of air rushing past trembling lips to form a broken sob. The Assassin, trained to feel no regret, but in no way lacking a sense of compassion even for his enemies as their life was extinguished, waited patiently for the guard's body to grow still in death, before releasing a heavy sigh and reaching out, using his right hand to permanently close the man's eyes. Such irony; the same hand used to kill was the one to show care and consideration. A sick parody some might say.

Rising to his feet, the Assassin brushed the dust and dirt from his pants, fixing his cape over his shoulder. He got no further than a few long strides, people in the crowd eagerly clearing a path for the cold-blooded 'murderer', when a panic-stricken citizen suddenly appeared from around the corner, waving his hand and pointing in the figure's general direction.

"There, there!" he exclaimed upon catching sight of him, eyes bugging and full of dread. "Guards! _Assassino_!"

The figure cursed under his breath as he heard the unmistakable clanging of weapons and armour approaching, and promptly turned on his heel, making a break for it in the opposite direction. Again he got no more than a few hurried paces away before he found himself skidding to a halt, the same scene replaying before his eyes, only this time it was a scantily clad _puttana_ disclosing his position.

It was mere seconds before he found himself fully surrounded, three guards blocking the way to his left, and four to his right. He could try to run, scaling the wall before or behind him, but he wouldn't get far, not when there was a plentiful supply of rubble ammunition to hurl at him – not to mention one of the guards had a halberd; a long, spear like weapon with an extravagant blade on the end.

Weighing up the likelihood of his options as the guards proceeded with caution, advancing carefully to snare him in a trap growing tighter and tighter with each calculated step, the Assassin quickly realised there was no other option…

He would have to fight his way out.

Resisting the overwhelming urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation lest the highly alert guards mistake it as a hostile action, the Assassin dropped his weight into an appropriate stance, his fingers curling and flexing periodically, the weight of his hidden blade an insurmountable comfort.

Taking a deep, soul cleansing breath in through his nose, the Assassin let it out in one word; "_Merda…_", before suddenly springing forward, effectively catching his first victim off guard.

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><p><em>"You're afraid?"<em>

_'Of course I'm afraid.'_

_"But you'll be safe now, held in the arms of your god."_

_'Have my brothers taught you nothing? I know what waits for me. For all of us.'_

_"If not your god, then what?"_

_'Nothing. Nothing waits. And that is what I fear.'_

_**Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad**_

_**Assassin's Creed**_

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><p>Running a hand through disobedient locks the shocking colour of electric teal – <em>home grown, thank you very much<em> – Captain Grimmjow Jeagerjaques wrinkled his nose. Sweat had gathered on his brow, making the unruly bangs falling over his forehead damp. He could feel the salty liquid forming at the nape of his neck as well, falling in steady drops down to the collar of his uniform. Fuck, it was hot as Hell today.

In a way, he supposed he was lucky enough; being Captain meant that he didn't have to wear a helmet. Why should he when he had a party of four men acting as his personal bodyguard wherever he went? His armour was also a lot lighter than that of his men, and sparse in comparison. So yeah, it could always be worse. Shit, some of his men must be damn near ready to pass out right about now. They wouldn't dare though, not if they valued their hides returning home in the same condition in which they left.

As of now, he and his men were in the San Marco district, making routine rounds. Grimmjow was content enough to allow his protection to do as they saw fit; hassling merchants for the permits to sell certain goods, taking none-to-discreet bribes if there was any discrepancies – of which the total sum would end up firmly within Grimmjow's own pocket – and even flirting with the local whores outside the _bordello_. He honestly couldn't give a shit what they got up to, as long as he didn't have to lift a finger. It was too fucking hot, his skin attempting to melt from his very bones, and he seriously couldn't be bothered raising his voice let alone a heavy, burdensome sword should the need arise. If he got away with doing sod all today, he could die a happy man.

But, of course, Lady Luck never was one to grace him with her sultry embrace. Fucking bitch that she was.

"_Capitano_!"

Sharp, piercing pools of aquamarine snapped in the direction of the cry, thin lips pulling back in a snarl to bare pearly white teeth, dauntingly sharp canines glinting against the glare of the sun in a most threatening manner. A gangly guard Grimmjow had long since forgotten the name of came rushing forward through the crowd, stumbling and falling over himself in his apparent urgency. Grimmjow cocked a slim, blue tinted brow.

"What is it, maggot?" he growled, making no move to conceal his displeasure as he stood to his full height of 6'2", burly arms crossing over a muscular chest. "This had better be good. I really don't feel like wastin' my time on any wretched curs who'd rather come bawlin' to 'mommy' than raise his sword to an enemy…"

The guard paled at that, swallowing thickly as the Captain's own squad of men came to flank him on either side, curious as to what all the commotion was about. Fidgeting nervously, the guard summoned the courage needed in order to simply address the bronzed skinned powerhouse that was Captain Jeagerjaques.

"F-Forgive me, _Capitano_," he stuttered, wringing out his hands as they began to sweat underneath his leather gloves. "But we have trouble down by the square…we need assistance right away!"

Grimmjow scoffed, already turning his back to the miserable sod as he replied. "Then go find someone else," he ordered arrogantly. "I'm far too important to be dragged into whatever petty squabble ya find yourselves stuck in."

"B-But, _Maestro_ Jeagerjaques…!" the guard implored, moving to rush after the Captain's lazily retreating form. Grimmjow's personal guard stepped forward, two men grabbing each one of his shoulders to keep him from reaching their superior. The guard struggled, though it proved fruitless. Grimmjow's bodyguard were notorious for both their strength and ruthlessness – much like the Captain himself. "Please, _Messere_! We need help!"

Grimmjow waved a haughty hand, his pace unfazed. "That's none'a my concern, _lurido porco_. Now piss off, before I get _really_ angry."

"It's the _Assassino_!" the guard all but yelled in a last-ditch effort to gain the Captain's interest. It seemed to work, as Grimmjow suddenly halted in his tracks, burning cerulean orbs peering back over his shoulder. "He's back, _Capitano_…and he…he murdered lieutenant Granz…"

Eyes narrowing into a vicious glare, Grimmjow about-faced, storming back over to the pleading guard to fist a hand in his collar. "Well, what the fuck're ya waitin' for? Lead the way!"

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><p><em>One: Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.<em>

_Two: Hide in plain sight._

_Three: Never compromise the Brotherhood._

**_The Assassin's Creed_**

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><p>The Assassin was busy dealing with the latest wave of opponents by the time Grimmjow and his men showed up. He could feel a fine sheen of perspiration sitting thick on his brow, plastering hidden bangs to his skin, much like his sweat-slicked back and legs were causing his clothing to stick against his heated flesh. Droplets of the saline liquid were rolling down from the bridge of his nose to his upper lip, souring his mouth with the stale taste of his own heat exhausted body. Still, he pressed onward, slaying any foolish enough to put themselves in his path.<p>

Grimmjow would never admit as much out loud – as it was, he had difficulty disclosing the information within his own head – but he was absolutely spellbound by the Assassin each and every time he caught a glimpse of him in action. His moves were so fluid and graceful, like a beautifully choreographed dance that only he could hear the beat to, the blood of his enemies raining down in a wondrous shower of crimson as he preformed brutal assassination after brutal assassination. It truly was a spectacle to behold, and one which had the ability to make his heart accelerate wildly whilst somehow simultaneously stilling it within his ribs. Shit, he would never tire of watching that lithe figure exacting out a lethal ballet of pinpoint manoeuvres and composed blows.

Simply mesmerising.

"You two," Grimmjow commanded of the two guards on his right. "Take post up on the roof an' wait for my signal. An' for the love of shit, be discreet, yeah?"

Once the two men hurried off, cerulean orbs gazed on in fascination as the Assassin dealt with the remaining three guards, seemingly unaware of their presence for the time being, the surrounding area littered with the fallen bodies of their comrades – the ostentatious head of amaranth pink hair that could be no other than Szayel amongst those scattered around.

Grimmjow mused as to the motives behind that one; sure the Borgia Guards and the Assassin's Guild never did agree what exactly justified a 'fair killing', no matter what side it fell on, but regardless there was _always_ a valid reason. For the life of him though, Grimmjow simply couldn't figure out what the pink haired bastard could have possibly done to warrant a personal hit from one of the most infamous hitmen in the city. Hell, possibly of _all time_.

A strangled cry of pain wrenched the Captain from his reflections, his focus snapping back to the ongoing exhibition just in time to witness one of the three guards encircling the figure getting a halberd to the gullet, the Assassin balancing his weight on his right foot to hurl the sharp blade into the target, the movement executed as elegantly as a step in the waltz. The guard fell backward, choking on his own fluids as he slammed to the ground. The Assassin swooped down to procure the dying man's own weapon; a rather vicious looking flanged mace.

The heavy weapon proved to be no difficulty for the Assassin to wield as it was pried from unresisting fingers, the youth twirling it a few times to get accustomed to its bulk and size. The two guards left standing shared a furtive glance before branching away from one another, approaching the figure head-on but from a wide birth. The Assassin flicked his gaze between the two, his posture calm and composed as he waited for his challengers to decide who would attack first.

The guard on his left charged first, sword held high above his head as he made his move. The Assassin rushed to meet him, countering the blow with the thick wooden handle of the mace. Kicking out with his right foot, he caught the guard square in the jewels, causing him to double over in agony. By the time the older man realised what position he'd put himself in, it was much too late, the skilled killer raising his own weapon above his head to bring down with crushing force on the back of his skull. The guard promptly hit the dirt face-first, fortunately dead before impact.

With a cry of his comrade's name, the final guard surged forward, sword held out by his right side. The Assassin neatly ducked back from the intended swipe to his neck, his footing remaining in place so that as soon as the deadly blade missed its target he could strike out with his left hand in an open-palmed blow to the nose. The guard stumbled back, losing all semblance of his stance, allowing the figure to kick out with his left foot this time, catching the wrist of the guard's sword hand so that the weapon flew from his hand and clattered harmlessly to the ground. Swinging the mace, the Assassin landed a devastating blow to the left side of the man's ribcage. The guard screamed in pain, clutching the wound as his torso hunched forward.

Noticing the Assassin gripping the handle of the heavy weapon with determined purpose, the guard's eyes widened in fear, desperate pleas to spare his life tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. The Assassin merely snorted in response before taking aim, twisting his upper body round in order to get as much power behind the final swing as he possibly could, much like the batter in a ball game before the throw. Pitching forward, he landed a sickening hit to the side of the man's face, bones shattering upon contact and blood spraying from several different lacerations as his body spun almost full circle before dropping lifelessly to the floor.

Panting and flushed with exertion, the Assassin let the weighty mace slip from his grasp, the sound of it slamming against the dusty cobblestone muffled due to the insane amount of blood rushing in his ears. His adrenaline high was making him feel dizzy, and admittedly at little nauseas it had been pumping through him that long. Couple that with the intense heat of the blazing sun, and his resulting state of dehydration, and the figure was just about damn ready to join the sea of mangled corpses at his feet.

Without any warning, a hot, searing pain lanced through the back of his right shoulder, causing him to teeter forward, almost tripping over his lethargic feet. Immediately on high alert, the Assassin crouched down to avoid any further hits, and, sure enough, seconds later a crossbow bolt whistled over the top of his head, embedding in the ground not a metre away.

Turning, ochre eyes glared up at the two archers on the rooftop behind him, both reloading the projectile weapon to take a second shot. The Assassin hissed, reaching back with his left hand to snap the wooden shaft of the bolt lodged in his shoulder, his eyes tearing up instinctually at the burning pain of ripped flesh and torn muscle. Just as the first archer took aim, a booming, purely masculine voice called them off.

"Oi, _bastardi_! Who the fuck told ya to go ahead an' fire? Huh? _Idiota_!"

The Assassin felt his whole body stiffen up at the voice, his head swivelling slowly to peer over his shoulder. _Captain Jeagerjaques_. What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be on the other side of town right now! Damn it, he should've known by the rich teal and blood red colours of the archers' uniforms that they were particular Borgia guards; namely _his_ guards.

Flanked further by two remaining shields, the Assassin could only roll his eyes at the confident, cocky swagger of the teal haired Captain as he sauntered ever so casually toward him.

"Just look at this mess," Grimmjow drawled, clicking his tongue as he poked at the corpse of one of the first wave guards with the toe of his boot. "It seems we can't go a single day without one'a you filthy Assassin's causin' some kind'a trouble, ne? What a waste."

"Then perhaps you and your men should think about treading more carefully, _Capitano_," the Assassin retorted, his tone a venomous hiss.

Grimmjow growled, cerulean pools narrowing to slits. "Or perhaps _you_ should stop murderin' the innocent, _Assassin_."

"_Tch_, don't make me laugh," the figure scorned, hands curling into fists by his side. "You Borgia scum wouldn't know the meaning of 'innocent' if it bit you in your pompous hides."

Grimmjow bristled. Damn kid was always so fucking mouthy. "Ya could swing for such insolent words, _marmocchio._"

The Assassin grit his teeth. Christ how he hated that stupid fucking nickname!

"I would hang for a lot more than a few ill spoken words," he stated icily. "Then again, you'd have to catch me first."

Grimmjow grinned, the look purely feral as he made a show of looking around them. "I wouldn't sound so fuckin' sure'a yourself, _ragazzo_," he sneered, sweeping his arms out by his sides. "Just look at ya; ya can barely stand on your own two feet. I hardly think you're gonna provide much of a challenge to _one_ man, let alone five."

The Assassin couldn't deny the claim; he was in serious trouble if the Captain and his men decided to take him down right now, _especially_ with two archers posted out of reach up on the palazzo rooftops. Letting his weary eyes slipped closed for a brief second to gather his scattered bearings, the young male took deep and steady breaths. He could do this. He would just have to concentrate that little bit harder, fight that little bit more diligently – but he was far from beat yet.

Just as that thought past through his mind, his willpower and resolve once again restored to maximum capacity, he heard a sound that shivered through to his very soul, one that had his head tilting back and a imperceptible, grateful smile quirking at the corner of his mouth…

The faint, but ever welcomed cry of the majestic eagle.

Eyelids fluttering open, the Assassin tentatively reached a hand out, catching a singular white and tan coloured feather within his open palm. Smile stretching into a beaming grin, the Assassin clutched the feather to his chest as it filled with warmth, locking shining ochre with piercing aquamarine.

"The fuck're ya smilin' about?" Grimmjow demanded in a huff, his brow creasing in suspicion.

The youth merely continued to smile, tucking the feather into the sleeve of his white undershirt. "Nothing at all, Captain Jeagerjaques. Well, apart from the fact that the odds are about to turn in my favour, that is," he added with a devious smirk.

Grimmjow scoffed derisively, though his right hand still lowered to rest on the hilt of his sword. "Oh yeah? An' what army's gonna give ya that advantage, hn?"

There was a muffled sound of commotion from above their heads, but by the time Grimmjow and his two foot soldiers could avert their attention that way, it was already over, the two archers disposed of and lying dead amongst the red slate tiles. Grimmjow whipped his gaze back to the Assassin, growling as he drew his weapon, followed swiftly by his men.

The young male simply chuckled at the blunette's look of unadulterated fury at losing his upper hand; at being bested. If there was one fact commonly known throughout the city, it was that the fearsome Captain sure did loath to lose. _At anything_.

"As you can see, _Capitano_," the Assassin began in a purposefully antagonistic drawl. "I don't need an entire army in order to win, and that's because I possess something much more powerful than that…" A self assured grin plastered itself across his lips as he locked eyes with the riled up blunette, a heavy sense of sheer conviction palpable in his tone. "I have the everlasting trust and fidelity of my comrades, and _that_, dear sir, is the single most prevailing arsenal any many could hope to own."

Growling loud enough to startle his own bodyguard, Grimmjow snapped, "Well? Don't just stand there, ya useless whelps! Have at 'im!"

A potent new rush of adrenaline quickly infiltrated the youth's veins as the two men ran forward, replenishing his lustre for battle as he hurled himself body and soul into the oncoming attack. The guard to his right, wielding a bearded axe, made the first attempt. The Assassin made short work of him though, parrying the first blow off of the metal design on his vambrace before snuffing his existence from the Earth with a swift but precision aimed stab to his sternum and gut, the youth making use of both hidden blades. Shoving the fumbling guard from his path, the Assassin rushed toward the second target who had taken up stance in front of his superior.

Running full tilt, the lithe figure easily avoided the mighty swing of the man's sword by dropping his weight, using the momentum from his dash to skid the whole way through the guard's parted legs. Jumping to his feet before the bewildered man had time to turn around, the Assassin made a fist with his right hand and gripped it in his left, thrusting his elbow back with force into the man's spine. The guard gave a harsh grunt at the powerful strike, arching his back into a definitive bow shape, allowing the young killer to wrap his arms around his neck. With a sly smirk to the seething blunette he was now facing, the Assassin dropped down onto one knee at the same time as pulling the guard's neck over his shoulder, effectively severing his spinal cord in one, violent tug.

Letting the listless body slump to the ground, the Assassin rose regally, eyeing the Borgia Captain with a cocked brow and an obvious air of, _"Whadda'ya say to that?"_

Grimmjow couldn't help but give a truly carnal smirk, weapon still drawn but idling by his side. "Impressive display, _Assassino_," he commended, cerulean orbs pinned to the athletic male as he made his way forward. "Though I can't help but wonder…what ya gonna do now?"

"That's a good question," the Assassin replied, still grinning victoriously as he stalked ever closer to the teal haired male. Making a subtle reach for the man, he remarked, "I suppose I could always–"

His thoughts were cut short as the distinctive bustle of rushing feet and shifting armour could be heard fast approaching, alongside the exclamation of, "This way, men! Hurry!"

The Assassin immediately pulled back from his initial intentions, clenching his jaw as he blew out an aggravated breath. Shit, was it honestly too much to ask for_ two fucking minutes_ of uninterrupted peace?

Apparently the answer to that was a resounding _'yes'_.

"_Perdonate_, Jeagerjaques. It would seem we're out of time."

Before Grimmjow could even open his mouth, the youth gave him a sharp kick to the inside of his left knee, making him buckle and fall forward, giving the Assassin time enough to manoeuvre behind him. Grabbing the Captain by the scruff, the figure trailed him to his feet, releasing the hidden blade on his right arm and pressing it tight against the supple skin of his throat just as a new assembly of guards rounded the corner.

"Halt right there!" the Assassin demanded, making a show of glinting the deadly blade in the sun against the blunette's neck. "Make one false move and I won't hesitate to slit him open," he threatened, pulling the compliant Borgia Captain back toward the wall behind them. When his foot made contact with the roughcast brick, the Assassin pressed his lips close to the elder's ear, murmuring, "I'll settle up with you later, _su altezza_. Until then, I'm sorry."

Grimmjow frowned. "'Sorry'? For what?"

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt an almighty clout to the back of his skull, causing him to pitch forward and his eyesight to blur around the edges. Shouts and commands erupted around him, the sound of arrows, bolts and rocks sailing through the air accompanying them shortly after. Grimmjow was vaguely aware of arms pulling him to his feet, of concerned questions as to his wellbeing and how he wanted them to proceed, but he couldn't focus on them.

Forcibly shrugging the numerous sets of fussing hands from his person, Grimmjow turned his attention skyward just in time to catch sight of the Assassin making his escape, that black and crimson lined cape fluttering in the wind as he effortlessly hefted himself over the top of the roof and promptly disappeared from view.

"_I'll settle up with you later…"_

The teal haired Captain couldn't hide the vicious smirk quirking his lips. Now _that_ sounded like a promise, and one from which he couldn't wait to reap the rewards. He'd be seeing that Assassin again sometime soon, that much was certain…and oh how he was going to enjoy making the insolent little brat pay for his actions here today.

Licking at his dry lips, he told his men to stand down, that they would have their chance yet, before scooping up his abandoned sword and sheathing it back at his hip. Rubbing at his throbbing temples, the early signs of a splitting migraine making themselves abundantly evident, Grimmjow felt his smirk tug wider.

Oh yes, he was going to enjoy every damn second of the kid's torture.

* * *

><p><em>"It is a good life we lead, brother."<em>

_'The best. May it never change.'_

_"And may it never change us."_

**_Frederico and Ezio Auditore da Firenze_**

**_Assassin's Creed 2_**

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><p><strong>Glossary: <strong>

_Sangue di Giuda_: Christ on a bicycle

_Stronzo_: Asshole/prick

_Bastardo_: Bastard

_Ma che cazzo_: What the fuck was that?

_Birbante_: Rascal/rogue

_Abominato_: Filth/wretch

_Bordello_: Brothel

_Assassino_: Assassin

_Lurido codardo_: Filthy coward

_Traditore_: Traitor

_Figlio d'un cane_: Son of a bitch

_Aiutami, Dio_: Help me, God

_Coniglio_: Coward/chicken

_Signore_: Mr/gentleman

_Requiescat in pace_: Rest in peace

_Puttana_: Whore

_Merda_: Shit

_Capitano_: Captain

_Maestro_: Master

_Messere_: Sir

_Lurido porco_: Filthy pig

_Idiota_: Idiot

_Marmocchio_: Brat

_Ragazzo_: Boy

_Perdonate_: Sorry

_Su altezza_: Your highness

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><p><strong>AN: Oh my. I cannot accurately put into words how excited I was to write this. Jus' like 'Red Dead Redemption', the 'Assassin's Creed' games are among mah all time favourites. I cannot friggin' wait ta get the new one, it's killin' me tha' I don't have it yet. Fer serial. Bouncin' off the walls here waitin' for mah pay ta come through - an' buyin' the new game is gonna be the very first thing I do with it~! ^^**

**As for the story, I can only hope yah'll who read it enjoyed doin' so. I tried mah best with the actiony/fight/parkour scenes, an' can only cross mah fingers tha' they're understandable/enjoyable. God it's hard ta write tha' kind'a stuff accurately, but without disturbin' the pace an' flow of the story with too much detail - which we all know am notoriously bad with~ This part is more a less an introduction, hence nothin' too vital is goin' on. Not tha' there will be a complicated plot considerin' this will be a short story anyway... Am sure yah'll guessed who the Assassin was, ne? There's a reason his name isn't mentioned, which will be brought ta light next chapter.**

**This was supposed ta be a OneShot, but alas I got carried away again. Another instalment should see her finished, but I refuse ta dig mahself a hole by sayin' as much only ta end up havin' to take it back - so let's jus' say we'll see, ne? *flicks tail***

**Please do enjoy if yah dare, mah sweets ^^**

**Ciao**

**Toringtino~**

**Oh, an' N.B. For those of yah who reviewed on mah last chapter of 'The Parent Trap', I wanna say a big, squishy thank yah~! (Here's lookin' at you, Belle!) Mah internet connection has been rather like my life as of late, which is ta say unreliable at best, so I can only apologise I never got round ta thankin' yahs personally - Just know tha' yer support means the world ta me, an' I'll never be able ta express mah gratitude enough~**

**~x~**


	2. Part Two

**Disclaimer: I do not, will not, shall not, can not, have not...uhm... Y'all catch the drift, yeah? I don't own Bleach, or any of the Assassin's Creed games. All rights go to their respective owners. Sods.**

**D'oh!**

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><p><strong><em>.:An Eagle's Cry:.<em>**

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><p><em>"We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins."<em>

**_Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli._**

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><p><em>.:Part Two:.<em>

When the sun retired for the day, relinquishing the sky and her possessions to the moon, the vast city of Florence flourished in a whole new and beautiful fashion. Blanketed under a network of inky, midnight blue, dozens upon dozens of stars dusting the heavens and shining for all their worth during their limited performance, the last of Florence's citizens still meandering on pressing errands, or stumbling home from their local taverna in a drunken stupor, began to retire for the night. A few sailors and stevedores were all that remained, working rigorously in the lantern lit gloom to make final repairs to their ships or, in the case of the stevedores, unloading precious cargo and transporting it to the safety of nearby warehouses.

Winehouses and brothels were the only establishments still buzzing with life and activity, but even then the city's streets remained sparsely populated. For all her beauty and serenity whilst nuzzled in the silvery embrace of the night, everything highlighted in an almost ethereal glow thanks to the cloudless sky and her latest inhabitant, Florence was not the safest place to be out in the open once the golden rays of the day slithered away. Like the _Dionaea muscipula_ – commonly referred to as the Venus Flytrap – she beckoned to those foolish enough to listen, luring them in with false beauty and promises of care, only to clamp down viciously on her prey once snared, wrapping them up in drapes of sin and depravity. No one ever complained, though, for once the sun fought for possession of her skies back, they knew their city would forgive them for their moment of weakness, and ultimately open up her heart once more.

Still, where most honourable men and girls of virtue pure tended to shy away from the unpredictability of their city under the shielding cloak of darkness, there were a handful of _Firenze_ residents that welcomed the shift in balance with outstretched arms and a smile on their face. One figure in particular rejoiced in it, his athletic physique easily merging with the long, dusky black shadows that bled all over the city. His footwork was hurried but precise, falling upon cobble and slate alike with the poised grace of a slinking feline, only the most minute of sound echoing from his every step as he progressed toward a certain goal.

Just like during the day, there were Borgia guards dotted all over the place, though noticeably sparse in comparison. Most consisted of archers littered amongst the rooftops, where they could make full use of the glittering silver strands pouring from the moon, her light giving them a generous view of the potential dangers that lay in wait within the murky depths below their posts. That wasn't to say that there were no foot patrols, for there were a good few meandering the streets; though by this stage of the night, most were too fatigued and bleary eyed to really summon the spirit to fulfil their roles. As such, many found themselves resting weary hides outside the taverns and brothels, partaking in a sly beverage or tempted from duty by lusty courtesans flashing creamy soft flesh and whispering promises of a night they'd never forget.

The Assassin could only scoff each and every time he slipped by completely undetected; honestly, with how shoddy the patrols were, it was a wonder he even bothered to try. He could probably saunter straight past their noses and they wouldn't bat an eye.

_Pathetic_.

Still, it made his own venture that much easier, and whole lot less bloody, which was always a plus. Really, blood spatters were an absolute nightmare to wash clean.

Rounding a corner a little too carelessly in the wake of such substandard sentry, the Assassin uttered a silent curse when he collided bodily with another being. Honey-ochre eyes widened slightly when the other turned, a sneer painted across burly features for the intrusion as a large hand fisted in the front of his plain, white hooded jerkin. The larger man swayed incoherently on his own two feet, his breath sour with the smell of wine as his lips curled back into a snarl; but that wasn't what caught the Assassin's attention. Oh no, it was the carmine red of the man's snug fitting doublet, the shining silver of armour glimmering ominously against the pale fingers of the moon, and, of course, the heavy sword hanging at the man's hip.

_Fucking Borgia dogs_, the Assassin mentally hissed as he was hauled closer to the guard's face, forcing deeper lungfuls of that rancid breath upon him as it fanned out across his cheeks.

"Oi, _cazzo_," the guard growled, eyes narrowed in contempt and what the Assassin could only assume was an attempt to get a better look at him through his liquor-impaired vision. "Watch where the fuck yer steppin', or am'a remove yer feet since they prove so useless."

The Assassin, wanting nothing more than to avoid a fight if he could in any way help it, simply bowed his head, feigning fearful submission. "_Perdonate, Messere_," he spoke, his eyes downcast. "It won't happen again."

"Damn straight it won't," the drunkenly guard scoffed, giving the younger a harsh shake for good measure. "We Borgia guards are the law 'round here. I should have yer _coglioni_ for even touchin' me without strict permission, ya plebeian piece'a shit. Consider yerself lucky I'm in a charitable mood and lettin' ya go with just a warnin'…this time."

Out of view, the Assassin rolled his eyes at the macho claim, knowing full well if the day ever came that they crossed blades, it would be the guard bleeding out at _his_ feet. It would be pointless to squabble about it though, and besides, the Assassin had better places to be right now.

"Thank you for your generosity, _messere_," he replied, his tone humble even when his thoughts were laced with venom. "I will take my leave, and not bother you further."

Grunting his approval, the guard shoved him back. "Good. Now get lost, _stronzo_, before I change my mind."

Stumbling to regain his footing from the highly unnecessary push, the Assassin swallowed back a vicious growl, his lip curling. Christ how he wanted to acquaint the _ciccione_ with the sharp end of his hidden blade, the silent puncturing of flesh and arteries guaranteed to make him feel ineffably better…but, rather begrudgingly, he refrained. He had only a small window of time in order to achieve his objective tonight, one which had grown significantly smaller due to the unforeseen mishap, and by Hell if he was going to miss his opportunity.

Stalking on past the riled up guard, whom had already busied himself with his previous endeavour of sexing up the scarcely clothed whore he'd neglected during the altercation, the Assassin made haste toward his destination, his keen eyesight not failing to miss the wary, penetrating gaze of two fellow guards as he breezed by.

An exasperated sigh fled his lungs when sensitive hearing picked up hushed whisperings from behind, the words "wanted" and "criminal" falling upon his ears before he'd even distanced himself by five goddamn feet.

One lone, dry chuckle fell from the Assassin's lips; he just couldn't seem to catch a break.

The Assassin broke into a run just as the command of, "Oi, you! Stop!" sounded from behind, idly wondering if such an order had ever worked on anybody before. The way he saw it, he had two options right now; fight or flight. Fighting sounded optimal, would prove to be oh so simple when taking into account that at least one of his pursuers was under the debilitating influence of the devil's nectar. But on the other hand he couldn't really afford for word to get out that two more guards had fallen, especially after this afternoon's chaotic events. He couldn't risk any passing guards or civilians spreading the news, only for it to fester throughout the streets, effectively putting every other sentinel detail on full alert – or worse, risk the deadly virus that is gossip reaching the heart of the body; Captain Jeagerjaques.

Fuck no. The Assassin had to make sure he reached him first, and, since his more aggressive actions had the nasty tendency of coming back to bite him square on the ass, he would take his chances with evasion rather than confrontation. After all, he was an Assassin, an elite killer that could easily parody biblical proportions, and if there was one thing his calibre of being was good at – other than a soundless, precision kill, of course – it was vanishing into thin air.

Smirking quietly to himself, the Assassin propelled himself onwards, the absence of his armour – as light as it was – as well as the bulk of his weapons making him even more adept on his feet than usual. Glancing skyward, he frowned. The rooftops were not his best bet right now, not at this time of night. With ninety percent of the city's residents already turned in for the night, his popping up roof-side would be all the more notable to the archers dotted around, all of whom would have nothing better to be noticing considering the streets were practically comatose. Besides that, it's not like he had the luxury of time to discreetly discern the locations of the bow wielding guards – it would just be his luck to haul himself up right beside one, and then he'd be royally screwed.

No. The mostly vacant streets were his safest option, where there was a labyrinth of alleyways and side passages, all oozing dark shadows out into the moonlit cobblestones, beckoning him to safety and a quick elusion. Hastily rounding a corner, the clamorous sound of heavy body armour ringing angrily in the distance, the Assassin felt his grin tugging wider when the colourful sight of lacy corsets and short tailored dresses came into view.

_Ah, courtesans_, the Assassin thought with a warming sense of camaraderie. _What a blessing in disguise_.

Four of the scantily clad beauties stood congregated together just outside a closed tailor shop, their location not a far cry from the most prominent _bordello_ in the entire city; _La Rosa Colta_. Each girl showcased a healthy expanse of creamy skin, an enticing hourglass figure, mile-long legs and willowy arms, both perfect for wrapping around whatever prey just so happened to fall into their intricately laid trap of sultry calls and sinful touches. A lot of honest women thought their job demeaning and baseless, a sickening display of the feminine form that sullied their names, but in reality the courtesans were among the most highly regarded women in society, ones who found themselves on the fast track to power and riches – and they just so happened to be a faithful, indispensable ally to the Assassin Brotherhood.

Upon hearing the hurried footfalls of the approaching figure, the four courtesans directed their attention his way, a mixture of confusion and caution passing through the small group as he skidded to an awkward stop in front of them. Just because it was their intended purpose to lure men in, to hand over their company and bodies when requested, did not mean they were stupid enough to include their trust in the package. Errors like that would see them dead before it did them any favours.

"_Ciao, bellas_," the Assassin greeted, his tone saturated with charm even given his current predicament.

The courtesan fronting the group, a youthful blonde with charming green eyes and a painted beauty mark above her lip, took a brief moment to study the stranger before endeavouring to speak. "_Buona sera, Messere_," she smiled, turning to her own vast repertoire of charisma. "Is there something we can aid you with?"

Keeping a wary lookout over his shoulder, the Assassin gave a curt nod. "As a matter of fact, there is. I find myself in dire need of a distraction…"

The remaining three girls looked thrilled at the news, two sharing a coy giggle whilst the third, a svelte brunette with glittering pools of crystal blue, draped an arm over the blonde, purring out in a seductive breath, "Mmm, for a delectable young soul like you, it would be _our_ pleasure…"

The Assassin had to fight back a chuckle at that. Poor woman was sniffing round the wrong tree…

"Ah, _scusi signorina_, you misunderstand me," the Assassin replied with a slight, apologetic bow. "The distraction is not so much for myself as it is for–"

The angry exclamation of, "Where the fuck did that _bastardo_ go!" cut the Assassin off mid-sentence. With a sheepish smile, he jammed a thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the commotion.

"It's for my…'company'," he finished.

The brunette gave a petulant pout, and the other two a whine of disapproval, whereas the blonde quirked a slender brow, her forest green eyes narrowing in contemplation as she took a bold step forward. The Assassin couldn't stop the gut reaction of shying away from the advance, his profession – and indeed his very adulthood – having conditioned him to be more than mistrustful of those encroaching in his personal space.

The courtesan was unperturbed, though, and reached out a dainty hand toward his face. The Assassin twitched, his every muscle tensing reflexively at the seemingly harmless action. Although a rarity for courtesans to be armed, he knew of more than a handful who equipped small daggers to their calves or thighs, and even the odd few who carried bladed fans, the malicious weapon as tactful and lethal as their own patented hidden blade. Like the 'double standard' of the rose, one could never be too careful around these beauties – one wrong move, and you could expect to experience their barbed thorns.

Swiftly assessing the situation, and finding himself in no way or manner threatened by the blonde, he permitted her to lay her hand upon his cheek, the pads of her fingers and small palm so wonderfully soft against his skin. Green eyes studied his face whilst silken fingertips caressed a path down to his chin, two slim digits pressing underneath to better angle his features into the illuminating rays of the moon. Thick lashes blinked a few times, before a beautiful smile touched the corners of plump lips and orbs the colour of wild foliage shone with recognition.

"I thought it was you," she said at last, dropping her hand down to her hip as she gave him an extensive once-over. "My, my, my… You seem to grow an inch taller every time I see you, Auditore."

The Assassin blanched slightly at the name, furiously racking his internal catalogues in order to place her within his life. When he constantly drew a blank, he frowned. "How do you know that name?"

The blonde rolled her eyes, fixing a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Silly child. It's me, Paola." When the Assassin gave a repentant shrug, the courtesan, Paola, batted him playfully on the arm. "_Idiota_! I'm one of your sister's girls." Another shout, coupled with the looming resonance of armour, had Paola giving the young Auditore an encouraging shove along the path. "Don't worry about your 'friends', _Messere_. We will take good care of them."

The Assassin couldn't help but grin, and, reaching into the small satchel attached to his hip, procured a small bag of golden _fiorini_. "_Salute, Madonna_," he said, tossing the bag to the blonde who caught it with ease. "I can only hope that's enough to compensate having to paw all over Borgia scum."

A sly smirk curled Paola's lips, her eyes flashing deviously. "No amount would ever be enough, but rest assured it will help."

Bowing regally, the Assassin quickly made tracks down the street, the courtesan watching his figure disappear as she carefully tucked the generous donation into the bust of her corset.

"_In bocca al lupo_, Auditore," she murmured as he bled into the shadows, a fond smile gracing her features prettily.

Once the young man vanished completely, Paola turned her attention to the three-strong group of guards as they piled around the corner, swords already drawn. Forcing her smile into one of business rather than pleasure, she eloquently flipped open her decorative Chinese-style fan with a simple flick of the wrist, nodding her head to the rest of her beautifully dressed party.

"Alright girls," she said, noticing that the guards had already slowed their pace upon catching sight of them. "Time for work…"

Sometimes, it was just too easy.

* * *

><p><em>"You think that commanding an army grants you nobility? Nobility comes from fighting besides your soldiers, not kidnapping a woman to cheat your way out of battle."<em>

**_Bartolomeo to Octavian de Valois_**

* * *

><p>Getting into the Captain's personal quarters within the barracks was shockingly, despairingly, easy. Then again, a task such as this was always made simple when one knew what to look for, knew how to pinpoint oversights and penetrate weak spots. For example, the Assassin had ascertained through nightly observation and scouting that at exactly midnight there was a changing of the guards. He knew that at this time, the fortification surrounding the barracks was at its most vulnerable, that Jeagerjaques' swarm of personal bodyguards were bound to lapse in their vigilant watch over their superior – and that was just the kind of opening the youth needed.<p>

It also helped when it wasn't your first time 'sneaking in'.

With a boyish smirk at his own accomplishment when he managed to slip over the defended wall completely undetected, the Assassin didn't dare stop to celebrate, swiftly making his way toward the accommodation he knew the blue haired commander would be bunked down in for the night.

Keeping close to the inky silhouettes provided by the surrounding walls and structures, the Assassin moved speedily but assuredly, gliding by the few soldiers still pottering around the grounds all without difficulty. From there it was just a case of scaling the rough brick wall at the back of the Captain's quarters, to the third-floor window on the far right where the Assassin knew the notorious blunette would be sprawled out on a king-size bed draped with silken sheets and, more likely than not, snoring away like a blissful fool, one completely oblivious to the kinds of life-threatening dangers lurking within the night's cool embrace.

_Dangers just like me_, the Assassin mused.

Silently hauling himself onto the windowsill just outside, ochre eyes made a quick sweep of the interior of the room, content to find the vast space enclosed in darkness but with the obvious outline of a large body curled up under bed sheets the colour of the ocean deep.

The Assassin shook his head with a heavy feeling of despondency. Honestly, it was almost as if the barbaric older male was _inviting_ others to have a go at his life.

Unsheathing a miniature stiletto knife hidden in the leg of his boot, the Assassin slipped the blade into the vertical seal of the window, starting a little ways below the centre and running it slowly upward until it hit and unhooked the little latch keeping it locked. Carefully returned the knife to its sheath, the young man gently nudged the window open, just enough for him to slip inside. He cringed when it gave a groan upon being shut, his eyes darting to the figure on the bed and his heart thrumming that little bit faster.

Breathing a sigh of relief when the mound of silk didn't budge an inch, the Assassin decided to leave the window as it was and slowly, _oh so very slowly_, made his way toward the bed.

One step. Two steps. Creaky floorboard on the third, easily amended with a sidestep to the left. Four steps. Five steps. Careful of the loose nail jutting out to the right. Six steps.

_There._

The Assassin permitted himself an infinitesimal curvature of the lips when his heart decided to give a spastic flutter, his body on sudden high-alert and awash with giddy adrenaline now that the target was within arms reach. This is what he lived for, moments just like these, where everything was so sensitive and hyperaware that he was convinced one miniscule differential in the endorphins coursing thickly throughout his system could mean the difference between a rush of excitement and cardiac arrest.

Steeling himself, the youth reached out, intending to peel back the royal blue cocoon of bed sheets, to reveal his target inch by inch – only he never quite got that far. His fingertips had barely skimmed over the ludicrously sleek surface, the neural receptors hardly given enough time to accurately appreciate the fine material, when he was suddenly ambushed from behind, his right arm twisted painfully and held tight against his back whilst a strong, muscular arm wound round his neck, the unmistakable chill of a serrated blade held against his jugular.

Knowing well enough to keep himself still, the Assassin let a steady breath out through his nose. "Faking a body in the bed –_ really?_ That's a very amateur move for someone boasting the title of _Capitano_, is it not?"

There was a cynical scoff from behind, one that caused the Assassin's skin to prickle.

"Amateur, ey? Then what, I wonder, does that make the man that fell for it? An idiot? A fool? Gullible?"

"Tired," the Assassin replied, only just resisting the urge to facepalm at his own stupidity. Seriously, it would have to happen _right_ in front of the man. For the love of– "In case you've forgotten, I killed a lot of pesky rodents today. Really takes it out of a man. Not that I would expect you to know anything about that."

A growl. "The fuck's that supposed to mean, ya ignorant brat?"

The youth kept his tone light, teasing, as he answered. "Must be a cushy life you lead, Captain Jeagerjaques, having human shields you can sacrifice in your place so that you never have to raise your own sword in battle." The Assassin gave a dramatic, dreamy sigh. "Sounds like heaven."

"Ya mouthy little fuck," Grimmjow rumbled, the Assassin swallowing thickly when sharp teeth nipped down in reprimand on the nape of his neck. "Those were _my_ men ya slaughtered today. I wanna know why."

The youth frowned. "They _attacked_ me. I was merely defending myself."

"That's not what I'm talkin' about," Grimmjow retorted, pressing the glinting blade of his dagger tighter against a peachy throat and smirking at the resulting consequence of forcing the trained killer to mould tighter against his front.

The younger male didn't complain.

"He was going to kill you."

Grimmjow was taken aback at the sudden declaration, blue tinted brows knitting together in confusion. "The fuck ya talkin' about?"

"Szayel," the Assassin clarified, his back resting against the larger male's broad chest, the warmth of his body gradually seeping through to heat the younger's blood. It was a rather pleasant sensation, admittedly, and he couldn't help but wonder if he was shirtless right now. "He was going to have you killed."

Grimmjow couldn't help but chuckle. "Szayel? That pink haired fruitcake? Don't be fuckin' ridiculous. He doesn't have the _coglioni_ to try an' pull a fast one on me, nor the fuckin' strength to back it up."

"It's true," the Assassin scowled, suddenly wishing he was at least facing the blunette so that he could see it. "He was your lieutenant, right?" A gruff grunt from behind was as good as a 'yes', so he continued. "His family name was next in line to take over from your own, and with you being the last in the Jeagerjaques bloodline, it was as simple as taking you out of the picture. He wasn't going to challenge you directly – _as-fucking-if_. He was going to poison you."

The smaller male felt the Captain tensing in fury, his muscular chest vibrating against his back as he snarled, "That backstabbin', snivelling fuckin' _codardo_!"

The Assassin found himself inclining his head – as much as he could – in agreement. "He'd been planning it for months, was gathering resources from all over and pulling in some pretty big favours in order to get his hands on all kinds of foreign narcotics. I didn't recognise even half of them! It was a new poison he was creating from scratch, and was supposed to make it look like you'd had a heart attack, was designed to be completely untraceable. A true stealth kill."

He ground his teeth together as dark thoughts of the poor, guileless victims the pink haired deviant had used as 'research subjects' filtered through his mind. He couldn't save them without jeopardising the bigger picture, without risking the mad scientist finding out he'd been discovered and really clamping down on the operation. It made his blood boil over and fester in his veins to know that he'd just stood by and watched as innocent people were led to the slaughter like fucking lambs – Christ, it literally went against every damn thing he stood for! But if he'd charged in blind, he would never have caught those responsible and held them accountable for their heinous crimes, as well as the final execution they never got around to enacting.

Sometimes sacrifices were necessary. Sometimes guiltless blood had to be shed in order to further a larger, more significant cause.

He could only hope and pray that the unfortunate souls who forfeited their lives could forgive him when he met up with them in the afterlife.

"He'd nearly perfected it," the Assassin continued, his voice leaking dark and venomous tones. "Was waiting for a final ingredient coming in on the afternoon shipment from across the seas – luckily I got to them first."

Cerulean eyes narrowed. "'Them'?"

"Yes. Szayel _and_ his villainous older brother."

"Sonofabitch! Yylfordt, too?" Again, the Assassin nodded. "_Merda_… I actually liked that fuckin' whelp. Che. I was wonderin' where he got to; didn't see his body with the others."

"It should wash up on the western shore about this time tomorrow."

Grimmjow, being the somewhat sadistic bastard he was, laughed at that, the idea of someone who'd had the gall to try and kill him, _him_, getting his comeuppance; that being nothing short of death. Motherfucking cunt-lickers. He was only angry he didn't get the satisfaction of killing the two traitors himself. Oh how he would have loved to stick a hand right through the both of them, feel their blood hot and sticky on his skin as he ripped their innards out for the buzzards to feed on. The very thought of the sickly sweet gratification was making him really quite hard.

Such thoughts consequently brought him to his next conundrum.

"Why did _you_ kill them, _Assassino_?" he wondered aloud, the beginnings of a cruel smirk quirking the corner of his mouth.

The Assassin could hear the satisfaction in the elder's tone, and rolled his eyes. "You know why."

"Oh I do, do I? Let's just pretend that am slow, yeah, an' spell it out to me…"

The younger snorted. "Who needs to pretend?"

"Why ya–"

Never one to let a perfectly good opportunity go to waste, the Assassin took full advantage of the blunette's distracted nature to stomp down hard on his left foot, his own booted heel more than a match against the bare feet of the other.

Grimmjow gave a loud, startled curse, releasing his hold around the younger's neck just enough for the little shit to thrust his elbow back into his ribs, causing him to stumble back a couple of steps and allowing ample room for the Assassin to twist out of his hold entirely.

"Fuckin' hell," Grimmjow groused, soothing over his ribs with the palm of his hand. "Was it really so hard to say ya care, brat?"

"_Fottiti_!" the Assassin growled, forcing his dilating eyes to focus on the man's face, and not that beautiful expanse of ripped, sun-kissed flesh as the blunette stood before him in nothing more than cotton sleeping pants. Damn, occasionally being right wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "You've had that damn knife held to my throat for near five minutes now!"

"Call it compensation for the teeth-jarrin' clout ya decked me earlier. Ya could'a given me a goddamn concussion with that wallop, ya snot-nosed prick!"

"Oh, come on! I barely tapped you, ya big _bambino_," the Assassin dismissed with a haughty wave. "And besides, I did apologise for it."

"Tch, _beforehand_ doesn't count…"

A slow, lopsided grin curved the younger's mouth, and he casually sauntered forward, closing the little distance that divided them. "You shouldn't be so…_bitchy_, Grimmjow," he murmured, caressing the palms of his hands up over handsomely sculpted pectorals as soon as he was close enough. "It's very unbecoming…"

Grimmjow let his eyelids fall to half mast at the sensual touch, his own large, sword callused hands settling on slim hips as he gazed down into shining ochre. "I wouldn't be so quick to label others as 'bitchy', _ragazzo_, not when _you_ could teach the class."

The Assassin curled his fingers into the longer strands of electric teal situated at the nape of the man's neck and gave a tetchy yank, wordlessly conveying his feelings toward that last comment. Grimmjow merely chuckled, the deep, masculine rumble causing pleasant goosebumps to prickle along the Assassin's flesh. Everything about the man was so wonderfully strong and strapping; his growling baritone, that generously built body, those captivating eyes, that ridiculous head of hair, even his pompous, 'greater-than-thou' attitude – _everything_, drawing him in with the awe-struck intensity of a moth to the flame.

It was a fatal attraction from the very beginning, all those many months ago, and if either one of them was found out there would be horridly dire consequences, the very least of which would be death…and yet, if he had the chance to do it all over again, there wasn't a single thing he would do differently, not even _one_ aspect he would change. Of that, he was certain.

Grimmjow found himself in a similar kind of mood; staring down at this beautiful being in his arms in wonderment and with a warming sense of admiration. When he noticed the younger leaning in with obvious purpose, he scoffed, halting his process with a hand meshed into juvenile, peachy features. The brat scowled up at him and batted his hand from his face, apparently not taking too kindly to being denied what he sought.

"Not so fast there, _micetto_," Grimmjow purred lasciviously, his right hand gently kneading his hip whilst his left ran leisurely up his back. Upon reaching the Assassin's head, he gripped the hooded cloak he wore between his thumb and forefinger, slowly drawing it back until it fell around sinewy shoulders. A sharp toothed grin graced the blunette's face at the glorious sight of bright, sunshiny tangerine tresses. Even now, in the dim confines of his room, Grimmjow could easily discern the outrageous colour, and it only made his smile all the brighter. He loved the kid's hair. With bangs long enough to disturb his vision, the locks at the nape long enough to brush along his shoulders, and the rest a mess of unruly spikes, his hair was a straight compliment to his personality; loud, proud, and oh so very bold.

"There," he commented, petting his hand through the silky spikes in appreciation. "That's much better."

Smiling, the youth made a second attempt at his earlier failure, and this time he wasn't refused – quite the opposite, in fact. Going for nothing more than a loving caress of mouths, the Assassin was more than a little surprised when rough lips collided with bruising force against his own, his smaller stature easily eclipsed by the much larger form of his lover as he pressed eagerly against him.

Grimmjow had never been a patient man, and feared he never would be; and right now was certainly no different. He'd been actively anticipating this meeting since this afternoon – for _weeks_ in fact – and now that he had his beautiful little kitten where he belonged, within the direct vicinity of his arms, he was all too willing to take advantage and ravish the boy stupid whilst he had the chance.

Running strong fingers through fantastically soft hair, Grimmjow gave a husky hum of pure contentment as he pulled back. "What ya say we go relax before gettin' down to business, hn?"

Wanting to whine at the loss of contact so soon after initiation, the young Assassin begrudgingly bit his tongue, the promise of a moment of relaxation after his frankly arduous day much too tempting to pass up.

Wrapping lean arms around a corded neck, the Assassin gave a lazy grin. "Mm. What did you have in mind?"

"I figured ya'd be stoppin' by durin' the swappin' of the guard," Grimmjow replied, dipping down to nip at the tip of the younger's ear. "So I drew a nice, hot bath not two minutes before ya showed up. Should still be good an'…_steamy_."

The Assassin couldn't stop the pleasurable shiver that racked his body at the lurid insinuation from the elder, his body temperature rocketing as erotic fantasies of naked flesh gliding across naked flesh, of hot tongues and blunt nails trailing sensual paths along delectable skin suddenly sprang into the forefront of his mind. Ochre eyes dilating even further, the orange haired male reached up to press a salacious kiss to the corner of the blunette's mouth.

"Sounds like a very promising plan to me," he purred before stepping away, sending a coy little smirk over his shoulder as he unclasped his cloak on his way to the washroom, the material pooling around his feet.

Grimmjow watched him go, rooted to the spot as he peeled article after cumbersome article of clothing off of that gorgeously athletic body, leaving a trail for him to follow as he disappeared from view into the adjoining room.

Heart pounding against its protective caging of bone with enough energy to burst right through, Grimmjow gave a wolfish grin. "Heh. Kinky little bitch," he muttered to no one but himself, already working his sleep pants off as he hurried to join his beautiful lover.

* * *

><p><em>"There will come a day in which men no longer cheat each other. And on that day we will see what mankind is truly capable of."<em>

**_Giovanni Auditore_**

* * *

><p>"Hah, <em>nnghn<em>…oh god, _Grimm_…"

Cerulean eyes blazed a rich, fiery blue, hungrily devouring the palatable sight of peach hued skin flushing with heat, of miles and miles of healthy skin glistening in the silvery strands of moonlight seeping in through the window, of kiss swollen lips parting to grant generous gulps of air into starving lungs. And those eyes, _god_, those downright sinful fucking eyes hooding over as they stared straight up at him, shimmering a mesmerising honey-gold in a potent mix of longing and ecstasy. They were searing right through him, stripping him of muscle, flesh and bone to find his centre, the very core of his being, laying him out bare so that he felt as helpless as a newborn babe.

And, damn him to the pits of Hell – he was enjoying every torturous second of that wonderful scrutiny.

Curling his fingers to brush with a deliberate amount of gentility over the small gland that made up the younger's pleasure button, Grimmjow bit back a heady groan when gloriously warm walls clenched around the digits, sucking them in deeper as the youth moaned loudly and drove his head back into the pillows at the head of his spacious bed. Orange tresses splayed in a striking compliment to their navy blue surroundings, the expensive silk sheets pooling around slick, heated peach so that it looked like the smaller male was encased in the ripples of an exotic shoreline. Couple that with the sinful little mewls and cries of bliss spilling from carnation pink lips and you have one hell of a breathtaking sight.

The Assassin, whilst in no way ungrateful for the lavish amount of attention he'd received thus far, was undeniably hungry for so much more – the bath had started off relaxing enough, with the two men content to wash and pamper one another, stealing the odd amorous kiss when they felt so inclined…but that hadn't lasted long. Once languid, loving strokes swiftly degenerated into ravenous, selfish clutching, and soft, doting kisses turned heated, possessive, _wanton_. When more water had ended up on the floor than remained in the large tub, the two men quickly migrated back to the bedroom, not bothering to dry off even a little as they fell in a lust-fogged blindness onto the generous mattress, limbs immediately tangling and mouths fused so that it became difficult to tell where one man finished and the other began.

That had been roughly ten minutes ago, and the younger male was desperately eager to move along, having been denied the blistering touch and sinful fulfilment of the blunette the previous two weeks. Work schedules had been busy for both, especially with the Assassin's own personal agenda to see to, and thus they had been denied one another's company the past fortnight – which, in the youth's individual opinion, was about _fourteen days too long._

Grimmjow wouldn't breathe a syllable of discrepancy.

Toes curling in pleasure when his prostate was attacked with blinding accuracy, the Assassin emitted an eloquent curse, one that rapidly deteriorated into an embarrassingly sluttish moan and subsequently caused heated blood to flood into his cheeks. Grimmjow gave a feral smirk.

"Oh _fuck_ yeah. They're the sounds I wanna hear, right there. C'mon, kitten, scream louder…"

Ochre eyes snapped open at that, ultimately glassed over in overwhelming torrents of crippling pleasure, but managing to accurately conveying their owner's defiance to such a request all the same. When the blunette retaliated by rubbing against his sweet spot in a hard and purposefully languid stroke, the Assassin could do nothing to stop the orgasm-inducing cry that ripped from his lungs, his engorged arousal nicely stimulated between washboard abs above and his own toned stomach beneath. Oh gods, it was all too much to endure.

"Pl-Please, Grimm," he managed to whimper when the blunette eased up on the relentless abuse of his prostate. "No, _mmmnn_, damn…no more foreplay…I-I cant take it any longer…"

With the heavy weight of his own arousal demanding attention between his legs, Grimmjow was in no real position to argue, conceding to his pretty lover's plea with due haste.

"As ya wish, _bello_. C'mere."

Fighting off a furious, indignant blush for the unnecessary endearment, the Assassin granted Grimmjow his hand, letting the blunette haul him forward into his lap as the older male sat back on his legs. Draping his left arm around broad shoulders, Grimmjow seized the wrist of his right, bringing the hand up to his lips. Dark cerulean captured and held honeyed-gold as he pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the centre of his palm. The younger male moaned at the erotic sight, his head tilting back but refusing to break their heated eye contact. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, however, when the blunette suddenly gave a devious smirk, mere moments before laving a long, wet trail from his wrist to the very tips of his fingers.

Mouth open and poised to question the need for such an act, the Assassin found his question answered without words when the Borgia Captain guided his now saliva slicked hand down to his impressive, thick length, encouraging him to grip the base, crisp blue curls tickling his skin, before dragging his hand up, essentially lubricating the powerful erection.

Grinning, the Assassin went the extra mile, flattening his palm over the precum saturated head, twisting and digging his thumb into the slit to gather as much of the pearly fluid as he could before drawing back down to the base again, slathering the mixture of fluids as he went.

Grimmjow hissed at the added attention, fisting a hand in the back of orange tresses to lay claim to those supple lips he just loved to nibble raw. The Assassin happily indulged in the contact, his mouth falling open obediently to grant the invading tongue admission without preamble. Grimmjow growled low in his chest at the blatant act of submission, his hands curling tightly, possessively, around slender hips as his tongue met its partner, the two wet muscles engaging in an exotic dance both men knew by heart.

Letting the blunette direct him, the young Assassin drowned himself in their heated clinch, his knees hugging tight around Grimmjow's waist when he felt the head of his cock probing at his stretched entrance. Unable to help the wince when the tip sank through the initial resistance, he dropped his head to rest on Grimmjow's shoulder, his nails finding purchase in a brawny back as he was breached inch by powerful inch.

Grimmjow's lip twitched in a slight curl when his lover broke through the tanned skin of his back, but didn't dare stop, not when that addictive heat was convulsing so wonderfully around his pulsating shaft. And so he pressed on, tenderly bringing the youth's hips down until he was sitting back on his spread thighs, until he got himself fully sheathed within that beautiful body. Quietly brushing his lips over a peachy throat, and whispering calming words of reassurance to his grimacing lover, Grimmjow reigned in his rapidly dwindling patience just enough to give the younger time to adjust himself.

What seemed like entirely too short a time to the Assassin, and yet convolutedly a whole fucking millennia to the Captain, Grimmjow began testing the waters with a gentle rocking, his fingers tracing soothing, nonsensical patterns on the small of the younger's back.

"If you're going to move, then just do it," the Assassin grit out, his tone shaky at best. "Don't pussyfoot around."

Grimmjow rolled his eyes. Fucking brat was always trying to boss him around.

"That pride a'yers is gonna get ya hurt one'a these days," he commented dryly, though put a tad bit more power behind his bucks regardless. "Just relax, kid. I'll take good care'a ya."

The Assassin outwardly scoffed, but nuzzled his face into the crook of the blunette's neck to hide the warming smile creeping across his lips. Stupid damn Captain, always trying to butter him up with such fucking sap – forget that it constantly worked, and oftentimes made him blush hotter than a Texan sunset; it was such emotional crap.

Grimmjow smirked, knowing exactly what the kid was up to, electrifying tremors racking the length of his spine when he felt him taking long lungfuls of his scent, when slender fingers tracked through his wild mane of blue hair and lean thighs clenched tighter around his hips.

"Mmm. You smell so fucking good, Grimm," the Assassin hummed hotly in his ear, his pelvis grinding down to meet his lazy thrusts. "Like earth and sun and sea and…_man_…"

Flattening his tongue over the youth's collarbone and up to the hollow of his throat, Grimmjow purred, "And you smell like a combination of sweat, sex, an' _me_. It's fuckin' _divine_."

The Assassin mewled when sharp, predatory teeth nipped at his pulse point, the sound progressing to a wanton moan when rough lips adhered down and gave a greedy suck. Answering with a harsh roll of his lips, the orange haired male gasped when the elder's throbbing cock sank in deeper, the head nestling up against his pleasure gland.

A purely feral grin ripped across Grimmjow's mouth at the discovery, and, knowing his fiery lover was no longer in any state of mind to protest, picked up the pace from firm but exploratory, to hard and borderline brutal.

"_Nnghn_, aah! _F-Fuck_…" the younger moaned, his eyes screwing shut and brows furrowing together in a pleasure concentrated scowl. "Oh _god_, yesss… Ha-_ah_-arder!"

"Hghnn, sh-shit…no problem," Grimmjow rumbled, gathering the panting, glistening body close. "Hold on tight, kitten…"

With no further warning, Grimmjow surged forward, one arm pinning the Assassin to his chest whilst his free hand gripped the back of a peachy thigh as he slammed them down onto the cushiony mattress. The younger gave a startled yelp at the sudden change in position, but was given no further length of time to recover or rebuke before his mouth was dominated and his body plundered.

Kissing back with as much affectionate aggression as he was receiving, the Assassin quickly fell into rhythm with his blue haired lover, wrapping athletic legs around his waist and raking dull fingernails up his sides hard enough to leave ridged tracks in their wake. As it was, Grimmjow was much too far gone by that stage to care, lost instead in the sweetly saccharine flavour of his pretty lover and the fan-fucking-tastic warmth hugging around his dick with the perfect amount of pressure. _Absolute heaven_.

With the kind of pinpoint accuracy and vigorous bucks the likes of which only Grimmjow could achieve, the Assassin soon found himself cresting along the pinnacle of euphoria, the blistering coil in his belly searing his insides as his prostate was nailed dead-on repeatedly whilst his precum soaked length received glorious attention between their grinding stomachs.

"I-I…_mmghnn_…so close…" he panted, his lungs burning from oxygen deprivation as he met the blunette thrust for thrust. "_Hahh_…so fucking cl-close, Grimmmm…"

"Christ, me too," Grimmjow rasped, his fingers gripping his lover's hips with a force he knew would bloom into bruises within a few scant hours. "After you, kitten…"

Drawing the boy as close as humanly possible, Grimmjow pistoned into his beckoning heat with abandon, tearing harmonious, keening cries of pure bliss from the depths of the Assassin's soul. From there, it took less than a minute to drive the orange haired youth into pleasure-ridden rapture, the Captain's name ripped from those delectable lips as his head snapped back, fingers and toes curling into white knuckles and those stunning ochre eyes lost to the back of his skull as he came hard between their sweat laden bodies.

With the gratifying sight, sound and feel of his younger lover reaching climax, Grimmjow swiftly followed suit, the more dominant and animalistic – _sadistic?_ – portion of his nature prompting him to sink pearly white teeth into the supple skin of his throat, the strong enamel easily breaking skin and bursting blood vessels to leave a sizeable love bite as he emptied his hot seed into the spasming canal of his lover.

The Assassin could only lay there, boneless and dumb, his every nerve end buzzing and highly sensitive, as the blunette lazily rode out his own devastating orgasm. When his hips finally stilled, the Assassin chanced a look up, his heavily hooded orbs instantly caught in the oceanic pools of his lover. He simply gazed at him, so utterly rapt with warmth and fondness as he drank in the sight of wildly dishevelled electric teal, of satisfied eyes and a contented grin. Avidly following a wayward bead of sweat as it pooled on the man's forehead and trickled down the bridge of his nose, the Assassin waited patiently until it collected in the tiny dip of his cupid's bow before leaning up on a forearm, his free hand cupping the side of that ruggedly handsome face as he licked the bead away.

Grimmjow cocked a brow, but allowed it, using the opportunity to suck the youth's tongue into his mouth, indulging them in a soft but passionate kiss. When he drew back, a thin strand of saliva attempted to keep them connected, but the effort was in vain when Grimmjow shifted to disentangle the himself from his lover's thoroughly abused hole, the miniscule globule of spit falling unnoticed upon the too hot flesh of the Assassin's chest.

It really needn't feel despondent though, for it had only failed where they themselves had found no solutions. Just like that inanimate droplet of liquid, neither Grimmjow nor his young lover had the answer to the question that seemed to hang permanently over their heads like a thunderous black cloud…

…_How could they ever find a way to be together?_

* * *

><p><em>"When I was very young, I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to all these conflicts. If only I had the humility to say to myself, I have seen enough for one life, I've done my part. Then again, there is no greater glory than fighting to find the truth."<em>

**_Altaïr to his son Darim_**

* * *

><p><strong>Glossary:<strong>

_Firenze_: Florence

_Cazzo_: Prick/shit

_Perdonate, Messere_: Sorry, Sir

_Coglioni_: Balls

_Stronzo_: Asshole/prick

_Ciccione_: Fatty

_Bordello_: Brothel

_La Rosa Colta_: "The Plucked Rose"

_Ciao, bellas_: Hello, ladies

_Buona sera, Messere_: Good evening, Sir

_Scusi signorina_: Excuse me, miss

_Bastardo_: Bastard

_Idiota_: Idiot

_Fiorini_: Florins (money)

_Salute, Madonna_: Bless you, Madame

_In bocca al lupo_: Good luck

_Capitano_: Captain

_Codardo_: Coward

_Merda_: Shit

_Assassino_: Assassin

_Fottiti_: Fuck you

_Bambino_: Baby

_Ragazzo_: Boy

_Micetto_: Kitten

_Bello_: Handsome

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Holy shit balls - can I breathe yet? M'not sure, an' I don' wanna try in case I go ahead an' pass out.**

**Fun fact; apparently I do most of mah writin' when am so damn close ta conkin' out I end up in tha' delirious state between consciousness an' oblivion... For serial, I fell over mah own damn dog three an' a half times today. How is tha' even possible? Kira's huge! A beast I tell yah! Rawr~ Add walkin' into an OPEN FUCKING DOOR an' shouting at mah neighbour's cat 'Kitty' fer rubbin' her head all over mah clean window an' yah got the recipe for one nutty yaoi fangirl right there...**

***shrugs* Guess tha's what 49 hours of sleep deprivation (an' counting) does to a person.**

**...**

**Whoa there, Silver! Let's get onta the more important stuff, ne? ^^'**

**Here y'all go, Part Two at long last (: Didn't really take long ta write, maybe 8 hours or so - but oh boy, did it ever take _loooong_ ta start! M'so very bad with procrastination, it's beyond ridiculous, so apologies fer tha'. I do try, am jus' not very successful - *is blatantly obvious***

**See what I mean, though? I knew I was right not ta say it would all be finished by this stage. How silly/optimistic of me! This Part was mostly jus' smutty good times - yummo~ So next Part will have more explanations an' (fingers crossed) drama within it.**

**Fer now though, please do enjoy at yer own peril mah sweets, I can only hope I did this Part justice for those who enjoyed the first Part - an' especially those of yah who are AC nuts like mahself ^^ Long live Ezio!**

**Have fun, an' ciao fer now bellas!**

**Toringtino~**

**PS, I realise I changed Ichigo's surname ta Auditore in this - I jus' thought it blended in more with the whole 'Italian' theme to be honest. An' 'sides, I think 'Ichigo Auditore da Firenze' has a very sexy ring to it, no~? *_purrrr_* Sorry if it upsets anyone, though.**

**~x~**


	3. Part Three

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, or any of the Assassin's Creed games. I do, however, take characters from each and make 'em do such naughty little things in my head...**

**Say what?**

**Hi-Ho, Silver~!**

* * *

><p><strong><em>.:An Eagle's Cry:.<em>**

* * *

><p><em>"While I thought that I was learning how to live,<em>

_I have been learning how to die."_

**_Leonardo da Vinci_**

* * *

><p><em>.:Part Three:.<em>

The moon was big and bright on this particularly balmy night, her silvery rays penetrating even the most infinitesimal of nooks and crannies, bathing them in pure, heavenly light. With the kind of spellbinding aura the likes of which only Florence was capable of, the night was perfect for lovers. The air was warm and sultry, but not so much as to deter beings from it; rather the opposite, in fact. It was passionate and inviting, adoring, like the loving embrace of a mother to her newborn babe.

Honey-ochre eyes, so full of contentment and awe, easily fell prey to such enthralling magnificence, thick lashes fanning over peach swathed cheekbones as those shimmering orbs tried in vain to reflect the night's beauty back to her. It really was a wasted effort, however, the young man realising he could be the worlds greatest poet and still fail to capture this wonderfully bewitching side of his beloved city. It didn't discourage him from trying, though.

"Simply beautiful," the Assassin murmured softly, the words escaping his mouth before he even realised he'd been thinking them. With the curtains drawn open – an oversight on both his and his lover's part when they'd passed out in a lust-drunk stupor not an hour previous – his own lithe frame found itself basked radiantly in the moon's presence, her ethereal light highlighting young, handsome features painted in satisfaction, narrow shoulders hunched forward and spine curved as lean arms hugged around athletic legs.

The Assassin inhaled slowly, deeply, through his nose, his eyes slipping to half mast and an admiring smile curving upon his lips. He never really got the chance to sit back and appreciate the natural beauty of this wonderful city, not anymore, and certainly not at the length he used to be able to enjoy when he was younger.

When he was so incredibly naïve.

His life was so chaotic now. There was always someone who needed punished, someone who pushed against the barriers of humanity, threatening _Firenze_ and her citizens, his very comrades and friends…his family. These days he spent more time scaling his city, hunting down the latest target and subsequently bathing in the blood of his enemies, than he did even partaking in normal conversations anymore. Don't get him wrong, he took great pride in the life thrust so suddenly upon his shoulders, his heart and soul poured liberally into each and every act he carried out to protect the ones he loved – but it was taxing, and demanding…and he was tired.

_Oh so very, very tired._

Hence when an opportunity like this rolled around – which was about as likely as experiencing a shooting star – the young male made sure he took full advantage of the serenity whilst he could, knowing full well that come daybreak, he would lose this tentative grasp on his hard earned inner-peace, watching as it obliterated into a million metaphorical shards and ebbed away like a mirage in the distance.

Mustering up the energy just to get himself out of bed was becoming that little bit harder each and every morning…

"Somethin' on your mind, _micetto_?"

The Assassin jumped roughly three foot out of skin at the unexpected interruption of his musings, a startled hiss pushing past his lips before he could stop it. An amused, sleep-drugged chuckle was granted for the noise, the orange haired youth narrowing his eyes on the clearly entertained blunette as he sat up beside him.

"Y'know, for an Assassin, you're surprisingly easy to get the drop on," Grimmjow drawled, his aquamarine eyes alight with mirth as a sly smirk quirked his lips at one corner.

"I thought you were sleeping," the Assassin defended, taking offence at the blatant witticism against his painstakingly honed skills. Beating back the suddenly ardent urge to physically reprimand the brute, the Assassin gave an indignant huff. "How long have you been awake?"

"About as long as ya've been borin' holes into the moon," Grimmjow shrugged, resting his back against the headrest.

Wrapping his burly arms around the Assassin's waist from behind, he pulled the boy to his chest, a contented rumble reverberating in his throat when the smaller male's compliant body slipped between his thighs, that peachy back moulding into him so perfectly. Grinning stupidly to himself, Grimmjow used one large hand to caress the soft, muscular plane of the kid's thigh, tracing random patterns with his fingertips, whilst the other travelled north, sliding up the curvature of the younger's spine before threading tenderly through tangerine spikes.

Pressing a loving kiss to the supple skin just behind the youth's ear, Grimmjow asked, "The hell's up with ya? Ya look like ya've got the weight'a the whole damn world bearin' down on your ass."

The Assassin tried to fight it, he really did, but his perpetual scowl managed to push through regardless. "Nothing's 'up'. I'm just enjoying the calm of the night. Or at least, I _was_…" he added derisively.

"Oh don't go gettin' all pissy, _marmocchio_," Grimmjow rebuked, fisting his hand in those silken locks to guide the younger's head back. "One so young shouldn't look so damn troubled."

Pools of crystallised aquamarine locked with glittering ochre, a growing sense of hunger – an apparently relentless one, at that – gnawing at his insides as he gazed down at his pretty lover. He honestly had no idea how it was possible to care so damn much about one person, how, with a simple look, the youthful killer could ensnare his attention so effortlessly. The kid had an unlawful talent for seeping under his skin, for penetrating his bones to the very marrow and infesting his bloodstream with torrents of toxic passion. He was like a virus, spreading throughout his entire being, consuming everything he had, everything he was, until all he could hear, see, think, feel and breathe was him.

Simply him. Only him.

_Always him._

Grimmjow silently cursed himself as the cruel realisation dawned slowly on his subconscious; he'd fallen for the damnable brat – so fucking hard and unexpectedly, it would seem, that he couldn't even tell you for sure when it had happened.

The Assassin could only watch, dumbstruck and admittedly a little apprehensive, as the blunette took to studying his face with a borderline avid scrutiny, those captivating pools scanning every detail he had to offer before retracing their steps, almost as if afraid they'd missed some crucial aspect the first time around.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, the Assassin poked his tongue out to wet his suddenly too dry lips, the action not going unnoticed by the blunette, and endeavoured his brain to kick into gear, if only just enough to form coherent sentences. Christ, Grimmjow really knew how to do a number on him…and all without breathing a single word. _Damn_.

"Gr-Grimm…?" Well, shit. Stuttering like a nervous child from the get-go? Not such a great start… "Are you alright? You're starting to weird me out…"

"Shh."

It was uttered so softly, barely above a whisper, and yet was a clear demand of silence. The Assassin blinked, his hackles instantly rising in the face of a command, no matter how subtle the elder had made it seem. It was nothing personal, not really; he'd never been one to conform and bow down to those riding on self-aggrandising power trips.

Glaring, the Assassin attempted to lift his head, only for Grimmjow to tighten his hold, effectively holding him captive. "Damn you, Jeagerjaques! Unhand me!"

"I said shh," Grimmjow growled, drinking down the glorious sight of those gorgeous fucking eyes burning with defiance, the heat in them scorching his skin and boiling his blood in the most delectable kind of way. "Am tryin' to appreciate your beauty here, kid, an' that ain't no easy feat when you're runnin' your mouth off. Cuties like you should be seen, _micetto_, not heard…"

"_Bastardo_!"

And there it was, just like that. With a few well placed phrases and just the right amount of practised prodding, Grimmjow unleashed the beast, his heart thrumming excitedly against his ribs as honeyed-ochre flashed an ominous molten gold, as petal soft lips peeled back to bare dazzling white teeth, and nostrils flared out in incensed anger. The larger male was far from intimidated, however, knowing exactly which buttons to push in order to provoke such a splendid fucking reaction. There really was nothing more erotic than a delectably riled up orangette.

"That's it, _tesoro_," Grimmjow purred even as he struggled to keep a good hold on his now thrashing captive, narrowly dodging a flailing uppercut to the chin. "Keep that fire roarin' in your belly. You're gonna need it."

Pushing all unnecessary thoughts of emotions cresting closer to the shore of love than that of lust, of a deeper connection than that of the carnally physical, the Borgia Captain dipped forward, slanting his lips firmly over his younger lover's, a strong hand kneading a taut thigh whilst callused pads scratched through vivid tangerine tresses. A low growl of approval rumbled in his chest when the Assassin returned the gesture with vigour, wiry arms locking around his neck and that sinful little body surging up into his own.

The youth had no idea what had suddenly come over the blunette, but he certainly wasn't going to stop to argue the passionate embrace. He would simply take out his previous frustrations on the brutish Captain with the vastly more gratifying method of a good, hard fuck. It sure beat the hell out of a pointless brawl, which would invariably lead right back to where they were now; so honestly, why should he bother?

Drawing back with a heated hiss when a large hand fisted his semi-hard arousal, the Assassin screwed his eyes shut, his fingers tugging encouragingly in tousled teal as a hot tongue laved across the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and that wicked appendage gave a mischievous squeeze around his length. Gripping the knees on either side of his own, the youth let his head loll back onto the elder's shoulder, his spine arching alongside every teasing stroke and wonderfully pressurised pump administered to his rapidly swelling cock.

Grimmjow smirked, absurdly pointed canines glinting ominously against the light of the moon as he lapped and sucked at the lusciously sweet flesh proffered to him, his more dominant personality provoking him to litter that feather-soft canvas with a series of ardent love bites. No point in anyone else seeing his pretty lover and thinking they had a hope in the deepest Pits of Hell of attaining him. Ergo, to save any mislead confusion or deluded fantasies to the contrary, Grimmjow would resort to the rule of the beast and clearly, _physically_, mark his territory. Now, if only he could convince the younger to bear his rank or insignia, perhaps in the form of an ornate choker, or a permanent brand somewhere…

Grimmjow gave a husky growl of approval to his own inner-musings, bringing up his free hand to pet around the Assassin's throat, teeth nipping and tongue laving as he imagined a beautiful silver chain, adorned with apatite and topaz gemstones, and, of course, his rank of _Sesto_ dangling prettily from the centre. Then everybody in the free fucking world would know _exactly_ who the young, fiery orangette belonged to.

Oh fuck _yes_. The mental image of it all was just about one of the most erotic, arousing thoughts to ever grace the blunette's subconscious, causing his libido to skyrocket and his blood to boil over within his veins.

"_Merda_… Up on your knees, kid," he husked, his voice rough and sensual as he followed his own instruction, drawing his legs up underneath himself behind the youth.

The Assassin gave a whining groan of protest when the Borgia Captain shifted behind him, taking that glorious pressure around his cock and heated torso away with him. Turning a petulant scowl up on the other, the Assassin made his displeasure known.

"What the hell are you doing? Come back and finish what you started, damn it!"

Grimmjow curled his lip, absolutely livid that his command was so blatantly disregarded. He was Grimmjow fucking Jeagerjaques, Captain of one of the most notorious and feared legions in the whole country – when he gave someone an order, he expected–nay, he fucking _demanded_ it be carried out as swiftly and competently as humanly possible. It was either that, or risk being taught a valuable 'life lesson' in following authority from the blunette himself. From the looks of things, he still had a ways to go with breaking in his high-spirited little killer.

With that thought in mind, Grimmjow fisted a handful of that ludicrously bright orange hair, the younger male baring his teeth against the harsh action as his head was yanked back, exposing his throat and making him feel overly vulnerable, which wasn't something he was exactly used to these days.

"Listen up, an' listen well, _ragazzo_," Grimmjow sneered, the words blending in a fine assortment of censure and dominance. "Am in no mood for backchat, ya hear me? When I tell ya to jump, you'd better be fuckin' prepared to take measurements an' play frog – got it? Don't forget, kid, I ain't afraid to force compliance should I feel so inclined…"

It was at times like this that the Assassin couldn't deny what was literally staring him in the face; the fact that, underneath all the searing lust and potent longing, Grimmjow was still nothing more than a Borgia mutt, simpering under the boot of one of the most influential – read; _corrupt_ – men to ever walk the face of the earth. It was enough to make him physically sick, that someone he cared so deeply for was left blind to the true horror around him, that someone he would gladly give his life for may not be so quick on the draw to do the same, and all because he had been brainwashed by that fucking tyrant parading around in sheep's clothing.

How could he strive to show Grimmjow the light, when he'd been shrouded in darkness for so long?

Still, the young Assassin supposed, there were times when the blue haired Captain's more aggressive side was–

"Get up on your knees, _puttana_. I won't ask a third time."

–well, so unbelievably _sexy_.

Fighting back a pleasurable shiver simply because he didn't want to give the egomaniac behind him the satisfaction, the Assassin did as he was told, though very begrudgingly. Cerulean eyes, noticeably darker in colour and heavily dilated, watched as the younger wisely obeyed, and, although quite the bit bitchy whilst complying, he couldn't stop the approving rumble deep within his chest at the beautiful show of submission.

The Assassin could have rolled his eyes at the smug sound elicited from the blunette, but barely had time enough to blink before a callused hand wrapped around the nape of his neck and he was forcibly shoved forward. Grunting when his chest rammed into the mattress, the youth glowered, trying to pick himself back up. A guttural warning growl from behind, coupled with a harsher grip around his neck, prevented him from getting too far though.

Grimmjow felt like cackling, he was that elated. There he was, sitting in his spacious king-sized bed, the dark, silky sheets pooling softly around his naked flesh like the sultry caress of a lover, and, laid bare and presented so appetizingly for his own gratification, was the single most beautiful being he had ever set his sights upon. Unable to help himself, he draped himself over his squirming lover's back, humming contentedly as the younger's body heat seeped through to his very core and his uniquely saccharine scent infiltrated system, setting his nerve endings alight and encasing his heart in warmth.

The Assassin, whilst somewhat confused as to what the elder was up to, couldn't deny the supremely wonderful feeling of that large body cocooning his own, couldn't help but breathe in that masculine musk rolling off of gorgeously tanned skin and marvel in the pleasant sensation those large hands were stoking within him as they traced over his ribs, shoulders, and arms. Sighing through his nose, the youth let the Captain do as he will, letting his eyelids flutter closed as he melded into that muscular torso painted across his back.

Feeling his pretty lover stilling beneath him, Grimmjow smirked, giving a gentle roll of his hips so that his weighty arousal, currently nestled between his own abs and those fleshy, round globes, rubbed teasingly over that not-so-hidden pucker. The subsequent hitching of breath and convulsive shudder from below was enough to make him purr in satisfaction, and so he gave another roll, harder this time, extracting a particularly wanton moan from the Assassin when the precum saturated head of his cock nudged against his entrance.

"_Hah_…oh yes, Grimm…"

"Mm, I love ya like this," he rumbled to his partner, his left hand keeping him pinned whilst the right fingered down the length of his spine. "Just look at'cha, _piccino_, bent over an' pantin' for me…like my own little bitch in heat. Fuckin' beautiful."

"You really love the sound of your own voice, huh?" the Assassin tried to scoff, though it came out decidedly more airy than he would have cared for.

"_Tch_. Always so fuckin' sarky, ey _micetto_?" Grimmjow growled, purposefully nudging at that beckoning heat again, drawing another delicious mewl from the smaller male. Grimmjow gave a feral grin, nibbling down on the younger's lobe as he purred, "Let's see if we can't fuck the wit right out'a ya, hmm?"

Without waiting for an appropriate response, knowing full well that it was only going to be something mordantly biting, the Borgia Captain snapped his hips forward, sinking his entire length within that glorious heat in one, brutal thrust. The Assassin cried out at the unexpected intrusion, the blunette's engorged arousal searing his insides in spite of still being rather loose from their earlier session. Curling his lip, the young killer enacted his own revenge on his boorish lover by clamping down on his cock, the vicious constriction on the highly sensitive organ enough to draw a carnal hiss from above. His smug sense of accomplishment, however, died as quickly as it appeared when the blunette chuckled darkly, those wicked teeth scraping over his throat as large hands curled in a firm grip around his hips.

"You're gonna have to do better than that, _amore mio_," Grimmjow purred, that sinful baritone sliding over the Assassin's skin like a velvet seduction, causing goosebumps to erupt all over his body like an exquisite plague. "C'mon, kid, don't hold back! Show me what ya got…"

The Assassin felt a small smirk morph across his lips, taking to the challenge with relish. If Grimmjow wanted to play _that_ game, then so be it; he certainly wouldn't pull any punches, just like he knew Grimmjow wouldn't either. He would show the cocky blunette exactly what he's got, and then later, when all had settled down and their blood flow had returned to the more astute of heads again, he would work on showing him the light…

* * *

><p><em>"No. Not gods. We simply came... before. Even when we walked the world, your kind struggled to understand our existence. We were more... advanced in time. Your minds were not yet ready. Still not, maybe never."<em>

**_Minerva_**

* * *

><p>Some hours later found the two lovers collapsed in a passion-laden fatigue upon the bed, both men abundantly sated and pleasantly fulfilled, the smell, touch, sight, sound and taste of the other thoroughly emblazoned on their very souls as, even now in rest, their limbs intertwined and scents intermixed. For the first time in a very long while, the room was silent and still, with little more than the soothing sound of each other's weary breaths filling the empty void.<p>

But, as life would dictate time and time again, all good things must come to an end…

"Yo. Your shoulder's bleedin'…"

"Wha–? Oh, goddamn it… Oi, stop snickering! This is all _your_ fault! If you hadn't thrown me around so much, I wouldn't have this problem…"

"Oh, please. Ya were practically _beggin'_ for it with all those slutty ass noises ya were makin'."

"Che, in your dreams, Jeagerjaques. Damn it – stop laughing! _Cazzo_… I hope it stains your good sheets."

"Heh. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, kid, but m'pretty sure we already ruined 'em…"

"Can you stop being a perverted asshole for _two damn seconds_ and tell me if it looks bad? My sister's gonna butcher me alive if I messed up the sutures…_again_…"

"Okay, okay. Christ you're a moany lil'–hey, wait… Didn't you say your sister was an awesome cook? Since when do culinary skills require ya to be good with a needle an' thread?"

"_Idiota_. The _younger_ one is the genius in the kitchen. The older likes to get her hand into a bit of everything, I guess. Can't say I approve of her running around with knives and swords, but at least some of her talents come in handy every once in a while."

"Oh yeah, completely forgot. Ya have _two_ sisters. Both younger, right?"

"What is this? An interrogation? No more questions. Just…check out my shoulder already, will you?"

Grumbling a tad at having to move from his overly relaxed position, Grimmjow acquiesced, hauling himself into a sitting position behind the younger, situating himself slightly to the left so that he wasn't blocking the natural light pouring in through the window. Using the pad of his thumb to swipe up the thin rivulet of crimson seeping from the jagged wound almost dead centre in the younger's shoulder blade, Grimmjow absentmindedly popped the digit into his mouth whilst he studied the injury.

"Well? How does it look?"

"Certainly tastes good," Grimmjow leered, pulling his thumb from his mouth with a purposefully audible and wet sounding pop. The Assassin predictably bristled.

"Grimm…"

"_Calma, bello_," Grimmjow replied curtly, playfully shoving the youth in his good shoulder. "The sutures are still in one piece, just a tad bit jostled. No harm, no foul."

With a satisfyingly exhausted sigh, the Captain collapsed back down onto the mattress, a lazy grin settling across the width of his mouth as he folded his arms behind his head and let his heavy lids droop closed. God. _Damn_. Was he ever beat… Not that he was complaining, not in the fucking slightest. He'd asked for the kid's best, had goaded him into bringing out that inner deviant he knew resided within that gorgeous body – and by fuck, did he ever get it. Tonight would definitely rank up there with his top three sexual experiences. Easily.

Needless to say, _all_ of the current three starred the orange haired Assassin; as well as about ninety percent of the lower portion.

Slitting open a hazy eye when he noticed that the youth had yet to join him, Grimmjow furrowed his brows upon finding the boy enjoying his favourite pastime as of late; staring moodily off into space.

Only just resisting the impulse to roll his eyes, the Captain reached out to him. "Stop poutin' already an' c'mere, _micetto_. Lay with me."

Given no option but utter compliance when a large hand wrapped around his forearm and gave a hearty yank, the Assassin merely huffed out an aggravated breath at the loutish manhandling before nestling down on the blunette's chest, sighing blissfully at the feel of warm flesh as he threw his left arm over the elder's torso and his right ear settled down over his heart, the gentle _thump_-_thump_ing decidedly relaxing. When strong fingers began petting through his hair, the Assassin hummed, his eyelids fluttering to a close as the rich, earthy musk of his lover penetrated his senses and spread like a contagious infection throughout his entire being, a soothing warmth folding around his heart like reams of the finest satin.

Letting his mind drift, the youth curled his arm tighter around the sculpted torso beneath him, grinning stupidly when thickly corded arms snaked around him, cocooning him in a fiercely protective, yet no less amorous, embrace.

Ah, yes. This was it; this is what perfection felt like. Being here in Grimmjow's arms, held so tight against him he felt he could easily merge into that beautiful body, truly become one with his heart and soul. Here he didn't have to worry about his city or his duty to her. He didn't have to agonize about the people he loved, about whether or not they were safe, or who he would have to target next in order to provide them with that security. When he was with Grimmjow, he didn't have to concern himself with the demanding, _exhausting_, task of protecting every damn soul around him – hell, he didn't even have to worry about keeping his own hide in tact. He could be his true self here, could act as young as he was, or, oftentimes, as old as he felt. Either way, Grimmjow never judged him, never held him back or pushed him too hard, never asked a damn thing of him. Well, nothing he wasn't all too willing to give, at any rate.

A troubled frown darkened the Assassin's brow, his own thoughts and deliberations causing him to suddenly fidget in discomfort. Tilting his head just enough to peer at the blunette from the corner of his eye, the young male felt his heart stutter awkwardly somewhere in the back of his throat. The Borgia Captain was resting – not sleeping, he was fairly certain, given the too-fast rise and fall of his chest – those captivating pools of cerulean concealed from view by heavy lids and thick, black lashes.

Unlike himself, or so he'd been told on several different occasions, the blunette didn't lose that intimidating glower in moments of reprieve. It was definitely less pronounced, but still so very visible. The Assassin had never been bothered, though, actually finding the expression very suiting of the older man. With hard lines cut into ruggedly handsome features, an acutely sharpened sense of perception, and a viciously scathing tongue to boot, Grimmjow was able to pull off such feral expressions and still look so devastatingly gorgeous – even in whilst dormant.

The Assassin found himself wishing that those oceanic orbs were open right now; he never honestly felt as calm or clear of mind when looking anywhere else.

Almost as if connected by the quintessence of their beings, Grimmjow felt a strong, incessant pull from within, alerting him to the fact that not only was he being stared at, but also that his significant other was in need of him.

Slitting one bleary eye open, the bushed Captain cocked a slender brow at the sight of shining ochre hastily diverting away, as if embarrassed at being caught eyeballing him. With a small, lopsided grin, Grimmjow scratched the pads of his fingers over the Assassin's scalp, hoping a little favourable – coercive? – attention would be enough to persuade the young male to spit it out whatever the fuck was eating at him already. In spite of the brat's claims to the contrary, he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't fucking blind. Something was bothering his fiery little _tesoro_ tonight, and the curiosity of what could possibly be so serious as to make a lethal killer such as himself so pensive was beginning to grate on him.

"Tell me what's wrong," Grimmjow implored, impatience saturating his tone. "An' don't tell me that it's 'nothing', 'cause I know it's _some_thin'. No one can look as miserable as you do without a secret to share." Peering down at the mess of orange nestled on his chest, Grimmjow scoffed. "Knowin' you, it's probably gonna be somethin' majorly brainless an' stupidly reckless…"

There was a long bout of discommodious hush, in which the Assassin stubbornly refused to meet the elder's eyes, and Grimmjow slowly lost grip on the tight rein over his tolerance for being ignored. A sharp, irritable growl penetrated the heavy blanket of quiet, causing the Assassin to flinch as well as altering him to the fact that he had obviously pulled a little too strenuously at the Captain's thinning leniency. Knowing that the older male would gladly badger the details from him, undoubtedly both verbally _and_ physically, the youth inhaled deeply, grazing his teeth over his bottom lip as he mentally prepared himself for the torrent of scorn and condemnation surely headed his way in the immediate future.

"I'm going after Aizen," he divulged at long last, ochre eyes locked onto the dead of space, if only to avoid the burning cerulean glare scorching holes through the crown of his head.

Grimmjow felt his lip twitch at that, the urge to peel it back and snarl like a wild animal almost too compelling to ignore. "I'm sorry…care to repeat that? Goin' after _who_?"

"You heard me," the Assassin retorted, his resolve stable even if his delivery wasn't so much. He felt the blunette's muscles bunching up underneath him, strong fingers curling to the point of pain in his mussed up hair and a tremulous rumble vibrating from the depths of rippling pectorals to shudder against his right cheek.

"No. See, what _I_ heard was that you were thinkin' of tryin' to off Aizen; an' since there's only one 'Aizen' I happen to know of in the entire country, an' that not even _you_ would be stupid enough to attempt that, I _know_ I must'a heard ya wrong…"

The Assassin growled, Captain Jeagerjaques' words, so chockfull of censure, making him feel a lot like an unruly child being chastised by a dictatorial parent.

"I can do this," he stated, his voice clipped in resentment. "I can take him."

Grimmjow grit his teeth, mentally cursing the young male out for his overbearing pig-headedness as his arms coiled tighter around him, pinning him to his body as if hoping he could somehow keep him there forever, or, more plausibly, prevent him from doing something so unbelievably idiotic.

"No, kid. You can't. Trust me; ya'd never even get close enough to try, let alone succeed. It would be nothin' short of suicide."

The Assassin felt his brows draw together in dissent, surprising them both when he wrenched himself free of Grimmjow's hold to loom over the older male, ochre eyes narrowed and glinting dangerously, whilst his jaw set against a steadily brewing fury.

Christ, he was so sick and tired of people doubting him, doubting the skills and abilities he'd only gone and sacrificed his entire adolescence to obtain – the exact same talent and dexterity that had saved countless citizens, fellow collaborators to the cause, and even a government official or two. Of course, the young killer never received any word of gratitude for constantly putting his life on the line for the masses, for making his city – and, who knows, perhaps even the world – a more secure and prosperous environment in which to live; but then, he never did expect anything in return, and nor did he want anything. Simply knowing that his family was safe and provided for was enough for him…

…or at least, it _had_ been.

For some reason yet unknown to the orange haired youth, he just couldn't abide Grimmjow having such a lack of trust in him. Not him. If there was one person inhabiting the face of the earth that _needed_ to believe in him, someone who could close their eyes with conviction and a smile on their face as they entrusted their very being in his hands, it had to be Grimmjow. The Assassin had absolutely no clue as to where this insane insecurity had stemmed, only that he ached for it to read true. Where everyone else would condemn and convict him, he needed to know that the Borgia Captain would brave himself against the rapids, would stand against the hordes and dare to put in him what no one else could, what no one else would dare to gamble; _blind faith_.

Otherwise…what was the point of it all?

"You can't tell me what to do, _Capitano_," the Assassin all but spat, his fiery gaze piercing down into pools of glittering aquamarine with a steadfast determination, and his hands balling into fists on either side of splayed electric teal. "I don't need your counsel, and I sure as fuck don't need your consent. The only reason I told you in the first place was because you wouldn't let it go. So don't act like I'm doing you a fucking favour, ya narcissistic asshole."

Grimmjow couldn't help but feel like a cornered rat in the face of his thoroughly pissed lover, his own eyes constricting to slits in answer to the open challenge issued by the youth. He could feel his gut knotting and adrenaline humming through his veins, preparing him to take action should the occasion arise. He really did loath to feel so open and exposed.

"Look, _boy_," he growled in response, his own masculine baritone laced with dark undertones as he tried his damnedest to refrain from taking back his stolen dominance. _Physically_. "I don't know what's got your panties bunched up so fuckin' tight, but it's not like am tellin' ya somethin' ya don't already know. Aizen Borgia is untouchable."

The Assassin merely scoffed. "Aizen is not a god, no matter how much he likes to claim otherwise. He is just like every other mortal man starving for power that came before him; callous, deceitful, and a lowly coward. And, just like all those souls he saw fit to let wither and die under his poisonous influence, he will get exactly what's coming to him."

"An' you're gonna be the one that gives it to him, I suppose…?"

The answer was swift and charged with the utmost confidence. "Yes."

For a stagnant moment, neither said a word to the other. Grimmjow was caught between bashing his head off a wall in frustration and pummelling the youth's brains in for refusing to listen to reason, whereas the Assassin was anxiously searching those fathomless blue depths for even the tiniest hint of that loyalty and devotion he so desperately craved right now.

When Grimmjow couldn't decide which action would compensate the monstrous headache he felt was imminent, and the Assassin failed to locate what it was he sought, the younger drew away with a soundless sigh, drawing his knees up to his chest as he gazed out the window, his eyes watching but not really seeing the steady rising of a new day, the night's midnight veil slowly bleeding away to make room for the waking sun.

"Sunrise is coming," the Assassin murmured with no real emotion, not once tearing his gaze from the radiant heavens. "I should make haste if we don't want any discourteous intrusions."

Before he could even think of following through with his voiced intentions, however, Grimmjow abruptly sat up, preventing him from budging an inch with nothing more than a heated glower.

"Sunrise is a good hour off yet, _marmocchio_," the Captain grumbled, levelling the flight-risk youth with a look sharper than the blade of his sword, one that foretold of serious discipline should it be rebelled against. "I don't know why you're so hell-bent on goin' toe-to-toe with one'a the most powerful men in the free fuckin' world, nor do I have any egocentric fallacies about bein' able to stop ya once ya've set your mind on somethin'… All I wanna know is _why?_ Why are ya so ready to throw your life away for that pious fuckin' prick? Shit, kid, you're just a _bambino_! Is whatever he's done _really_ worth the cost of your own life?"

Shifting under such earnest analysis, the Assassin began restlessly massaging his right foot over his left, arms wrapping securely around his legs. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Grimm…"

"Why not give me a goddamn chance an' try me?" the Captain retorted, a slight bite to his tone at the insinuation he couldn't function on an adequate level of emotion to comprehend the situation. "Ya know, a lil' faith wouldn't go amiss. Fucker."

The Assassin couldn't help but smile at his choice of words; who would have guessed that the fearless Captain desired something so pure and transparent from him? That they would hunger for the same thing _at all_.

Theoretically, it should be so easily attained, so effortlessly given and reciprocated – but, in all honesty, what could either one of them claim to hold over and of the other? The Assassin was a swift and silent predator, his realm and, indeed, very universe centred within the shadows, to aiding countless comrades from long before his time in bringing down the pillar stones of their enemies. He dedicated his ability and very life to seeking justice; exterminating the corrupt and delivering those he held dear from evil. In many regards, he was redemption personified.

And then on the opposing hand stood Grimmjow, a whole new breed of predator; the truly dangerous kind. He dealt out his own interpretation of alleged 'justice', but was blind to the fact that he was little more than an obedient pet answering to a higher command, to his _master_. One such as the Captain didn't have the luxury, nor the basic human liberty, to lead with his heart, to do what it was he _believed_ to be the honourable course of action, rather than what he was _told_.

As a Borgia Captain, Grimmjow was prowling high enough up the food chain to fool himself with notions of superiority, power, and control, but the Assassin knew better, knew it was only a matter of time before that beautiful spirit of his was eclipsed and snuffed out completely. He'd seen it happen time and time again, and was determined to break the cycle of malfeasance before it crushed such a wild and powerful creature. A man like Grimmjow was never meant to be shackled down and tamed, he wasn't built for it, and the orange haired male refused to sit idly by and watch as his lover, a man so wonderfully feral and passionate in every aspect of his life, was whipped like a lowly dog and forced to submit under the reign of the world's greatest illusionist.

Grimmjow, watching with avid curiosity – and a rapidly depleting repertoire of patience – as the youth seemed to be mulling something rather pressing over in his head, those ochre eyes scanning over nothing in particular and brows scrunched in a way that could only be described as 'cute', released a pent up whoosh of air, shrugging off bitter rejection as he conceded to the realisation that he wasn't going to get anything further out of his younger lover. _Just like fuckin' always_, he cursed mentally.

But, as is also quite customary, the Assassin caught him completely off guard when he suddenly spoke up, the severity of his opening statement knocking him six ways from fucking Sunday.

"Aizen murdered my parents," the Assassin divulged, acidic bile clogging up his throat as a myriad of still ripe memories flooded his brain and lacerated scabbing wounds decorating his heart. "They were innocent, executed in cold-blood for daring to stand on their own two feet and digging too close to the truth."

For the first time in a long, _long_ while, Grimmjow was stunned into silence, both at the gravity of such a soul-searing confession, and, possibly even more astounding, the fact that the vibrant haired youth was disclosing something so personal to begin with.

Other than physical attributes, and a few discovered kinks and quirks – mostly confined within the four edges of the mattress – the teal haired Captain knew next to nothing about the high-spirited boy sat beside him._ "Such intimate knowledge isn't required, or at all necessary. Anything you need to know, you are already acquainted with."_ Those had been his exact words, and, for the most part, Grimmjow was happy enough to play along. He himself would gladly spill his guts, reveal every dark secret and hidden skeleton had the kid but only asked; he had nothing to hide, wasn't ashamed of who he was or where he came from – but he was also acutely aware that the stream didn't flow both ways. Hell, had the damn brat not tried to kill him when he'd first transferred to _Firenze_ from _Roma_, he wouldn't even know that the most notorious killer in the city and his hot-blooded little kitten were one in the same.

_He didn't even know his name…_

Hence, if the younger male wanted to indulge him in a glimpse into that mystifying enigma that was his life, no matter how brief, Grimmjow was going to devour the enlightenment like a ravenous beast out for blood.

The Assassin, sensing he was in no danger of interruption, continued. "From the age of fourteen to seventeen I was nothing more than a nobleman's son, a banker's apprentice. I was told I would someday take over my Father's heritage, and lead the family bank. I was always surprised that Father had chosen me over my _fratellone_, but had surmised it was because I'd always had a better flare for knowledge, was always more adept with numbers and even discipline." The Assassin chuckled a little, though the sound was strained and wistful in its strength. "He never did take orders well, not even from _Madre_."

Grimmjow pursed his lips, digesting this new information. "So, on top of two younger sisters, ya have an older brother as well?"

The Assassin swallowed dryly against the growing obstruction wedged in his throat, averting his gaze off to the side as his teeth clacked together in poorly repressed anguish. "…_Had_."

Grimmjow gave a curt nod of understanding, though made no attempt to offer any words of condolence or comfort. Nothing he could say could ever hope to repair a wound the palpable depth of that one, and so he didn't even bother to try, worried he would cause more damage than aid.

"I didn't suspect a goddamn thing," the Assassin went on, "would never have guessed in my wildest dreams that my own family would hide something so…_important_ from me. I mean, my brother and I, we were as thick as thieves. Always together. Always pulling pranks and getting into trouble with the Old Man."

A warm, genuine smile fluttered across the Assassin's lips then, his ochre eyes teeming with fondness for a life that had come to pass so long ago, and yet was still so tangible that he woke every fucking morning believing it had occurred only the day before.

Grimmjow knew that the crux of the matter was fast approaching when that affectionate gleam steadily filtered from the youth's glittering orbs, an ugly, scathing glare rising from its ashes so that the boy looked every inch the lethal killer his life and city had moulded him to become.

"By the time I realised what was going on, when I finally figured out that my Father wasn't just the loony financier I'd always believed him to be…it was too late; _I_ was too late…"

Clenching his eyes shut against the haunting memories of his greatest failure, the Assassin grit his teeth and buried his head against his legs. He'd never told a single living soul any of this, what he'd witnessed on that fateful day and how it had turned his world so completely upside down. It hurt, both physically and mentally, to relive such wretched memories, ironically the exact same ones that shaped and sculpted him into the man he was proud to call himself this day.

A large hand settling on his shoulder startled him from his painful reverie, the warmth and reassurance from such a simple gesture bleeding into his system like a breath of crisp, fresh air. Tilting his head up, the Assassin was floored by the encouraging reinforcement radiating from those blue pools, the pain constricting like barbed wire around his heart slowly receding so that he could breathe again.

"Tell me what happened."

With a shaky nod and a tentative lick to dry lips, the Assassin greedily drew strength from the calming touch of his lover, and commenced his tale once more.

"It all happened so fast, I have difficulty wrapping my head around events even now…" he started, unconsciously edging his body closer to the elder's inviting embrace. "They came when I was out running errands for Father; Aizen's personal guards. They arrested Father on the spot, then beat and…and raped Mother before hauling her off in chains, too. My brother hadn't been home at the time, thank _Dio_, but it didn't take long for word to reach him, and he returned immediately to protect our traumatised sisters, hiding them away in the safety of a local _bordello_ where we had confidants we could trust. He found me shortly after, and we climbed the tower of the Palazzo della Signoria in the dead of night where they were holding our parents. My Father and _fratellone_ had a rushed, heated conversation, one I couldn't fully comprehend – it ended with Father telling my brother to flee as soon as possible, though not before I was 'educated'."

Grimmjow hummed. "Aa. So this is where it all began, ey? The 'Origins'."

"I guess you could say that," the Assassin granted, only now noticing that throughout the course of his story, he had subconsciously situated himself back between the Borgia Captain's legs, thick arms holding him loosely about the waist. "My brother told me little, but in retrospect more than enough. He said I should return to the mansion, that there was a hidden door in Father's office, and a chest concealed in the chamber beyond it. I was instructed to take everything within that chest. He warned me that much of it would seem strange to me, but that everything was important. He then fled the city, under Father's orders."

"What was in the chest?" Grimmjow asked, finding himself genuinely curious and hooked on the account of events he didn't think he'd ever live long enough to hear.

An amicable chuckle tumbled from the Assassin's lips. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?"

"Lucky for me then that I just so happen to be human," Grimmjow scoffed.

"Barely…" the Assassin teased, earning himself a sharp growl and nip to the throat.

"_Cagna_. Get on with the story, already."

Choosing to ignore the derogatory 'endearment' for the time being, the Assassin concurred. "The chest contained the hooded Assassin robes, a leather bracer with the hidden blade connected, though I didn't recognise it as such back then, a sword, a page of intricate plans covered with symbols and letters, and the documents my Father had told my _fratellone_ would clear his name if delivered to one Gin Ichimaru."

Grimmjow frowned at that. "Ya mean the Chief Justice of Florence?"

"The very one. Gin was an old friend of Father's, and my brother and I had always treated him as if he was our own uncle. I should have seen him for what he truly was, though; a poisonous snake in the grass." Grimmjow felt the young male growing rigid in his hold, his every muscle pulling taut as a carnal rumble sounded in his chest. "That backstabbing _bastardo_! He said that there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding when I delivered the documents, told me that there was a conspiracy against my Father and he would clear everything up by their trial the next morning…but he lied! Right to my fucking face! And I was too naïve to see it!"

"_Calma_," Grimmjow hushed, though it did little good to settle the violent tornado currently wracking the younger's core.

"That fucking traitor was working for Aizen the whole time!" the Assassin fumed, his blood searing through his veins as all of the potent fury from that day came flooding back with the devastating might of a tsunami. "I turned up to the trail in the square, expecting to return back home beside my Mother and Father, and instead arrived just in time to hear Gin spouting bullshit claims and forged fucking 'evidence' condemning my parents to the act of treason! I could do nothing but watch as they swung in the gallows for their so-called 'crimes'… Not two days later, whilst laying low, I received word that my brother had been killed on his travels to Forli. 'Resisting arrest', they told me. _Che_."

Taking deep, cleansing breaths to calm his incensed tremors, the Assassin forced himself to finish.

"After ensuring my sisters were well provided for, I headed out to Monteriggioni, where I lived and trained with my true Uncle. He taught me how to fight, broadened my mind and introduced me to the Brotherhood – and I haven't looked back since. When I returned, I immediately set out after Gin…he was my first real assassination, and I'm rather ashamed to admit that I relished in his death. His demise was personal, though; simple vengeance. My Father had actually been on to something much, _much_ bigger than all which was apparent on the suface, was closing in on the true villain pulling the strings…"

"…Aizen."

The Assassin inclined his head. "Florence and her people–no, all of Italy, will never know freedom as long as that…that _cur_ walks the earth, which is exactly why I must strike now whilst he's obtainable, _before_ he's elected Pope and becomes marginally more difficult to reach." Shining ochre flicked up to meet captivating cerulean, the sheer strength of heart and pure of soul poured into the next words from the Assassin's mouth leaving Grimmjow with a roiling turbulence in his gut – and not the good kind either. "I can't let everything my Father lived for, everything he died trying to protect, go to waste. I _will_ find a way to free the world from the venomous illusion Aizen Borgia has cast over us…or I will die trying."

Grimmjow sucked hard on his teeth, his arms holding the youth firmer without his realising it. "I can't talk ya into changin' your mind, can I?"

It wasn't a question. Not really. And both knew it.

"It's sweet that you would even think to try…and means a lot more than you will probably ever understand." Shifting his gaze to the window, the Assassin dimly noted that the sky had bled into brilliant shades of gold and orange, the sun beating her sister back for sovereignty over the skies once more. With a soft sigh, the Assassin turned back to his lover. "I have to go."

Grimmjow allowed the young male to disentangle himself from his embrace without complaint, quietly admiring the way hardened muscle rippled and pulled beneath layers of delectable peach as he dressed himself, the rising sun spilling faint rays of the new day in through the open window and into that ludicrously orange hair, making it glow like a halo around his head.

The minutes ticked by in relative silence, the subtle rustling of articles of clothing being pulled on, and then the heavier clump of boots at the end, the only noise disturbing the peaceful tranquillity one could only experience at the breaking of dawn.

Running a hand through disobedient spikes once before pulling the hood of his cloak up, the Assassin turned to kneel on the bed, his lips finding Grimmjow's in a thoroughly amorous farewell kiss. "_Ciao_, Captain Jeagerjaques. And thank you, for everything."

"Mm. I don't suppose you're gonna tell me your name this time, ne?" The Assassin merely smirked, provoking Grimmjow to roll his eyes. Before he knew it, the youth was at the open window, readying himself to somersault out in true Assassin fashion. "Wait!" he called before he could stop himself, the younger glancing back over his shoulder with a raised brow. Scowling at his own detestable spike of insecurity, the blunette grumbled more than inquired; "When will I see you again?"

"Soon," the Assassin answered cryptically, a cocky grin quirking his lips. "I promise."

With that, the Assassin spread his arms wide, and, without a moment's hesitation or a single shred of fear for his own wellbeing, leapt off of the narrow sill, back neatly arched and legs pressed together to perform a fluent, flawlessly executed swan-dive; a Leap of Faith.

Grimmjow shook his head in disdain, scrubbing both hands over his face as he let himself fall back onto the cooling sheets, already lamenting the loss of addictive warmth provided by the now absent body. His pretty lover had given him a lot to think about, that was for damn sure – but right now he needed to rest whilst he still had an hour or so of peace to do so, before he started his gruelling day of pretending to give a shit about the people around him.

As his eyelids lost the battle to fatigue and his breathing deepened to a steady rhythm, he couldn't help but curse just how twisted and cruel the mistress of fate truly was, the morbid irony of it all being that the one person he actually cared enough about to readily lay down his own immortal soul to shield from harm, turned out to be the only one he couldn't ever hope to protect.

* * *

><p><em>"My dear sons, dark skies are rising over Florence and time is running low. The enemy is closer than I thought. Now, the final battle is about to unfold. Every man is mortal, every life bounds to an end but certain things will never change. Federico and Ezio, my sons, always remember: WE are the Auditore da Firenze and WE are Assassins."<em>

**_Giovanni Auditore da Firenze._**

* * *

><p><strong>Glossary:<strong>

_Firenze_: Florence

_Micetto_: Kitten

_Marmocchio_: Brat

_Bastardo_: Bastard

_Tesoro_: Sweetheart/treasure

_Sesto_: Sixth

_Merda_: Shit

_Ragazzo_: Boy

_Puttana_: Whore

_Piccino_: Little one

_Amore mio_: My darling

_Cazzo_: Prick/shit

_Calma_: Calm down

_Bello_: Handsome

_Capitano_: Captain

_Bambino_: Baby

_Roma_: Rome

_Fratellone_: Big Brother (affectionate)

_Madre_: Mother

_Bordello_: Brothel

_Dio_: God

_Cagna_: Bitch

_Ciao_: Goodbye

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh. God.**

**This...took...for...ever...**

**Sorry y'all~ Christmas has wiped me completely, even though I've done pretty much Jack fer it thus far - weird, huh? I had a serious caffeine deficiency last week, an' suffered some horrendous headaches as a result, meanin' I was a lot later with this than I had originally planned. Am sufficiently replenished now though, yeys ^^ Well, it'll do at any rate...**

**As usual, I got nowhere even close to where I wanted ta be. Hence the drama an' action will have ta wait until Part Four, rawr~ I have somethin' very specific in mind, so hopefully it works out an' y'all enjoy it, ne? (:**

**But yes...this Part. Like it, yes? No? Not bothered? I honestly don' know how I feel about it, but then again m'sleepy an' hungry, so am in a bitchy mood an' mah emotions are jacked. I can only hope tha' anyone patient/enthralled enough to read all the way down ta here enjoyed what I have ta offer. I know not too much happened, but tha' should be rectified next instalment. I hope.**

**Eep.**

**Please do have fun if yah's like, an' ciao fer now**

**Toringtino~**


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